Page 107 of Married to the Devil

I can’t dwell on it. Not right now. If I’m too late, I don’t know what I’m going to do. My daughter, my wife, my entire world is in that mansion, and if either of them are hurt, if they’re taken as hostages, used as leverage⁠—

I’ll slaughter everyone involved.

Death will be a mercy for any man who tried to harm my child and my woman.

Tires screech as I slam the brakes. The mansion looks quiet. I fling myself from the front seat and spring up the steps to the door. I hesitate, thinking I should be more careful, if someone’s waiting on the other side I might be walking into a trap⁠—

But to hell with my own life.

I kick the door open and storm in, gun drawn and ready. I clear the front room in hunting mode, quickly speeding along the first floor, heading back to the kitchens.

The scent of blood hits hard.

June. Hattie. Oh fucking Christ. Please, no.

I enter, scanning the space with my weapon.

Clean counters. Immaculately organized pots and pans. I take a step forward slowly, the smell of blood sharper now, and there’s a groan toward the back.

A trail of fresh, sticky red’s on the floor. I follow it and slow, heart thudding, to find Byron lying on his side near the back door.

The big chef’s eyes are half closed. Sweat’s beading his forehead. Blood’s leaking from a wound in his chest. He’s clearly only half alive. I crouch beside him and put a hand on his arm.

“What happened?”

His gaze focuses. “I tried… I’m sorry…”

“Byron. Where is my wife?”

“Running… always running… never… please… hurts…”

Fuck. I’m losing him. I shake his arm. “You have to stay with me. Where is June? Where is my daughter?”

A moment of lucidity. “Upstairs.” But it quickly fades. “Upstairs… heaven, God, I hope… I miss…”

His body goes still and he lets out a long exhale.

Fuck. Byron.

He was a good man. I remember meeting him for the first time years ago. He was a young chef in Philly. I sponsored him back then, paid some of his bills, got him jobs, helped him grow. When he got sick of commercial kitchens, he came to work for me, and we haven’t been far apart since.

Now he’s dead.

But June isn’t.

I stand and sweep the room one last time, making sure I’m not missing anything, before I start to the staff staircase. Byron used the last of his strength to give me one message.

Upstairs.

That must be where June’s hiding.

I force myself to keep a steady pace. Someone’s still in this house. Byron’s wound was bad and he must’ve only been shot a few minutes ago. I likely didn’t hear the gun go off over the sound of my truck’s engine.

Which means I’m not too late.

BANG.

It’s a loud, violent thud, like someone trying to break down a door.