Page 37 of The Ecstasy of Sin

I snarl, the sound so deeply inhuman I’m almost shocked it came from my mouth. Almost. “Don’t fucking call me that,” I spit, unable to mask for him after everything that just happened.

My goddamn foster brother is not who I want to hear referring to me as Daddy.

Wren, on the other hand…

“What do you need?” Ryker’s tone shifts instantly, all traces of playfulness gone. He knows which version of me he’s talking to—the one my brothers handle like a bomb with a hair trigger.

“Body. Clean up. Behind St. Augustine's Cathedral. Now, Ryker.”

“Leave the scene. We’re coming.”

The phone line goes silent, but I’m already moving. I snatch up Wren’s backpack and run.

My DNA is definitely all over that fucking corpse. I lost my goddamn mind, and that made me messy.

Ryker’s men work fast, thank fuck. It helps that we’ve got ties with one of the higher ups on the local police force—but that’s worst case scenario. We’ll pull that card if we need to.

As much as I hate sloppy kills, I don’t regret it for a second. I almost lost Wren, and that piece of shit deserved everything he got.

Wren is mine, and I’d do it a thousand times over again if I had to. With a smile on my fucking face. Nobody touches her but me. Not anymore.

With Wren’s backpack in hand, I slither through the city streets like a fucking viper. I’m coated in blood, looking every bit the deranged serial killer that I am. The rain isn’t working fast enough to wash away the gore and make me look human again.

It takes longer than I’d like for me to make it all the way back to my bike, and thankfully by the time I do, the rain isn’t pouring as heavily. Riding in the rain isn’t ideal, but I didn’t exactlyplan this day as meticulously as I would have had I been able to track Wren’s whereabouts from the start.

I need a shower and a change of clothes before I drop her backpack off with security at the shelter.

I mount the bike and tear off into the wet streets, taking the fastest road home.

***

I’msteppingoutofthe shower when my phone rings. I can hear it from the kitchen table, where I left it after wiping it down.

“Hunter, grab my phone, please,” I call out, watching as he lifts his head from where he is curled up outside the bathroom door. He trots off, his tail wagging.

I towel myself off while he figures out how to get up and nudge the phone to the edge of the table so he can pick it up.

Of course he succeeds, because he is the smartest dog alive.

I smile when he trots back over to me, stepping into the foggy bathroom and delivering it right to my hand. “Good boy,” I tell him, giving him a scratch behind the ear as I take the phone from his jaws and answer it.

“Yeah?”

“What the actual fuck, Dom?” Ryker snarls. “That was the worst fucking mess I’ve ever seen, and in the middle of the goddamn city?”

A twisted smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, remembering how savagely I destroyed that man’s face. “He got what he deserved.”

“Well, he’s food for the pigs now.” The sigh that comes out of him makes me feel a little bad for telling him to clean up after my kill, if only for a moment. The feeling is fleeting, unlike my desire to get back to stalking Wren.

“Thanks.”

The line goes quiet. Then, another sigh. “Yeah. You’re welcome, you sick fuck.”

I laugh—a low, maniacal sound I’m sure makes Ryker uneasy. For a man that owns an illegal fight ring, in a club that siphons the spilled blood through the floor like an unholy tithe, he’s the least deranged of the four of us.

“Get some fucking therapy,” he snaps, right before I end the call, but there’s no real heat to his words.

As I put on a clean set of clothes, memories start flooding in of the men I’ve killed in Ryker’s club over the years. The buckets of blood I’ve spilled, and the carnage I’ve left for his staff to clean.