Page 120 of Unveil

“Orion!”

The last thing I hear is the woman I love begging for my life.

The black bag comes off with a harshwhoosh, yanking on strands of my tangled hair. Half-blind, I kick the bastard in front of me, slamming my foot right in his dick.

He jolts, clutching himself as he crumples to his knees on a pathetic, high-pitched keen. I rear back to strike again, but an iron grip jerks me backward against a broad chest that reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Bart.

“Where thehellis Orion?” I scream at him over my shoulder, swinging my legs anyway, not caring that pain shoots up my ankle like I’m learning pointe all over again.

My victim, the other bearded brute that helped kidnap me, wheezes. “You.Bitch?—”

“Travis, you best stop right there.”

A woman’s voice cracks like a whip, freezing me in place. “You ain’t above a whupping, even at your age.”

I blink several times until my eyes adjust to the dim lantern glow, revealing the white painted wooden walls of a chapel. My gaze lands on a single pew with armrests. It’s more throne thanchurch seat, made all the more surreal by the regal woman holding court from it.

She’s perched like a wise, elderly queen, so ancient I’d believe it if she’d been here longer than the Appalachian Mountains themselves. Her pale, gnarled hands rest on a hooked cane, and she wears a prim, black dress buttoned to her chin, faded blonde hair wound tightly into a bun at her collar.

“Excuse him, baby,” she drawls, her cadence and accent eerily like Orion’s. “My boys know better than to speak ill of women and the dead. But even though he’s one of my grandbabies, his momma ain’t raised him right. Just look at that unkempt beard. Hairier than Bigfoot.” She ends with a disapproving click of her tongue.

Beside her, an older, barrel-chested, clean-shaven guard grumbles. “Now that ain’t nice neither, Mama.”

She glares up at the man nearly twice her height. “Ain’t my fault, son. You married her even after I told you she weren’t right for the Wildes.”

Her rheumy blue eyes narrow at the drama king still rolling on the floor. “Apologize, Travvie-boy.”

He groans. “Sorry… Mama Bossie.”

Oh. My brows shoot up, eyes darting from him to her. Sothisis Bossie Wilde.

The frail woman stretches slowly—her frame all skin and bone—then whacks her cane across Travis’s back with enough force that he cries out and I flinch. Maybe Orion’s “bit of a ruthless bitch” description was an understatement. Gotta admit, I’d be impressed if I wasn’t a little terrified.

“Don’t apologize to me, fool.” She points her cane at me. “To our guest.”

“Ugh… sorry, Luna,” he rasps.

Bossie’s eyes land on me again, full of wry amusement as she sits back again.

“Men never do learn, do they? That’s why us womenfolk gotta stick together.” She juts her chin at Bart. “Let her go, Barty. She ain’t gonna cause no trouble now. Are you, child?”

My heart pounds like I’ve taken another high dive off a short cliff. There’s more than a hint of warning in her question, and my eyes flick to her bone-white knuckles tightening around her cane.

I shake my head.

Bart releases me roughly from his meaty grip, and I stumble toward her.

“Careful! Goodness gracious, Barty, you’re gonna break the poor girl. She a little bitty ol’ thing already…”

I stay silent as she berates him for manhandling me, taking in my surroundings and trying to figure out my best play.

We’re on a church stage with dingy red carpet and warped wood that creaks beneath our feet. Wind rattles through the slatted walls like the chapel itself is breathing through cracked ribs. Smoke stains climb toward the rafters from flickering lantern sconces, their light casting shadows in the corners like restless spirits. Behind Bossie, the faded imprint of a cross is flanked by arched stained glass windows, their biblical tableaus fractured to hell. A small plaque near the lectern catches my eye.

Whitby Rose Chapel

My stomach drops.