Page 103 of Boneyard HEA

To my shock, he obeys—drops to the ground and stays still and quiet.

Three men push through the hedgerow, armed with pistols only. Three.

I can take them. They’re not even spreading out to dissipate any potential fire from us.

Who are they after? Georgia?

God above knows why but I feel a proprietary interest in her, in her ass, too. Have done so since that first day. Held back because, well, she is damaged.

I stay low and let out a deliberate groan. Shooting too early gives them time to duck and get low, if any are missed.

Closer, closer… I eye them through the sprigs of grass near my nose. My fingers curl on the gun where I have managed to lie it flat and concealed but pointing their way. One finger caresses the trigger.

Georgia. I think of her to occupy the time as they slow their approach…she seemed such a small, overwhelmed thing back in Australia, and all the way over here in the plane. Then she fucking pulled a blade on this guy and cut him? Must have stolen it from the doctor…and what therapist has scalpels, for fuck’s sake?

The bastards have stopped walking. Come on. Just a little further.

That aggressive act of hers has triggered my dominant gene or something. My spanking gene? I stop myself from laughing and smile instead. She’s been hiding her true nature.

I could be wrong there, but I aim to sit her down and ask her, nicely, all the whys and hows about her situation in that torture dungeon.

Come on, guys. Another step, please. One. Fucking. Step.

The sights are lined up.

And if I’m right about her being secretive? That possibility stirs me. Maybe I sensed something in her from the start. My fantasies kick in. I’ll start slow, get the truth from her, introduce her to some of the CNC Fraternity quirks and see what she makes of kink, and⁠—

All three of them move forward.

I squeeze off the first shot. Crack. I hit him square in the chest, and when he crumples, I move swiftly from left to right, adjusting my aim. Crack, crack. Then I fire three more to be sure, because if I’m wrong, if I haven’t hit where I think I have, they will fire back.

Silence rules the field when I stand, apart from the ticking of the car, the cries of birds, and a few swear words from Alden.

“All of them?” he asks incredulously, rocking up onto hands and knees.

I say nothing as I cautiously move forward to check.

Corpse one, corpse two, and the third is still breathing, sprawled on his back, staring at sky.

This is not the place or time for morals and empathy. I fire a shot into his head then push through the hedgerow. I retrieve the spikes and a bag they left, note their car where it is partly concealed further along the road, but no other men.

Then I jog back to the Porsche where the man is helping Georgia out and onto a safe spot a few yards from the wreckage. She’s conscious and ambulatory, with only a small amount of blood on her forehead. Her pretty red curls hang low over her eyes, but she’s looking up at me, through the curls, like maybe she’s studying me while I’m studying her back.

My curiosity is engaged.

“Where are we going now?” I ask him, holstering my gun, and trying to ignore my hardening dick. Of all the times for arousal, this is not one of them.

“To Hell, maybe? Those are my brother’s men.”

The CNC Fraternity continues with Georgia’s story in To Be Red: TBR <— Find the book on Amazon

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