Page 180 of Hades

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound came out. The paralysis was setting in. His fingers twitched. His legs spasmed once, twice, then went still. But his eyes stayed open. Stayed aware.

Watching me.

His chest hitched as he took shallow, irregular breaths. His heart struggling. His pupils dilated, then fixed on something above me. Something I couldn’t see. His mouth moved soundlessly, forming words I couldn’t hear. His eyes snapped back to mine. Rage flickered there. Impotent. Dying.

Another spasm. Weaker this time. His whole body jerked once and went still. His breathing changed to a wet rattling. Blood in his lungs. I watched his chest rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise. Pause. Fall. Pause. Rise. Longer pause. His eyes were glazing over, the light behind them dimming. His chest rose one last time. Held. Fell.

Didn’t rise again.

His eyes stayed open. Fixed on nothing. Seeing nothing. Dead.

I sat back in the chair and let my back rest against the wood. Let my breathing slow. The zip ties had loosened enough during his death throes that I could slip one hand free. Then the other. I stood, legs shaking, adrenaline crashing through my system now that it was over.

Zander’s body lay sprawled on the concrete. Blood pooled beneath his head. His mouth hung open. His eyes stared at the ceiling. I walked to the workbench and found a rag to wipe my hands, then my wrists where the zip ties had cut. I picked up the knife he’d dropped and tested the weight, the balance.

Then I walked to the door and pressed my ear against the metal. Silence. No, not silence. Distant. Faint. Growing louder. Engines. Motorcycles. Coming closer.

I stepped back from the door, knife in hand. Ready. The engines grew louder. I smiled and waited for my king to arrive.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Hades

The warehouse came into view through the dust. Corrugated metal walls, rusted roof, single door hanging crooked on its hinges. I killed the engine, and silence crashed down around me. No screaming. No struggle. No sound of violence in progress. Either I was too late or she’d already handled it herself.

I kicked the door open. The hinges screamed as metal scraped concrete, and there she was, standing in the center of the warehouse with a knife in her right hand, hair tangled and wild, eyes sharp and clear.

Alive.

Whole.

Lethal.

My gaze dropped to the body on the floor. Dakota Stone. Dead. Blood pooled beneath his head. His eyes stared at nothing; his mouth hung open in a silent scream that would never come.

I looked back at Lettie. She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t dropped the knife or tried to explain. She just stood there, waiting, and when our eyes met, I saw all of it. The woman who’d poisoned Echo, who’d killed Professor Halston and Harlen Troy and Darlene Kessler and God only knew how many others. The woman who’d helped Rhea escape, who’d systematically eliminated abusers across Texas for years without hesitation or remorse. The woman who’d just killed a man with her bare hands and a vial of poison.

My queen.

I crossed the warehouse floor, boots echoing on concrete, each step deliberate and controlled. She didn’t back away. Didn’t lower the knife. Just watched me come. I stopped in front of her, close enough to touch, close enough to see the flecks in her eyes, the way her chest rose and fell, the steadiness in her gaze. No fear. No apology. No shame.

I reached up and touched her cheek. Still wet. She didn’t flinch. I took the knife from her hand, set it on the floor, and then pulled her against me. Hard. Possessive. Mine.

Her arms came around me immediately, fingers digging into my back, face pressed against my chest. I buried my face in her hair and breathed her in, tears and sweat and something darker, something that belonged to me.

“You killed him,” I said against her temple. Not a question. A statement.

“Yes.”

I smiled. Slow and dark and absolutely fucking feral. “Good.”

Her eyes widened slightly. I leaned in, pressed my forehead against hers, and let my hands slide down to her throat. Not threatening. Claiming.

“You think I give a fuck about the bodies you’ve left behind?” My voice came out rough and raw.

“Brock—”

“I don’t.” I cut her off. “I don’t care about any of it. You know why?”