“Warwick!” I heard Ash bellow through the burning trees. “You fucking asshole!”
Slowly, a smirk bent Warwick’s mouth, his gaze still claiming me. His nose flared before he dropped his hand and pushed away. Turning, he strolled toward his friend, disappearing through the trees.
My body slumped into the wall, exhausted and dizzy, though I felt far better than I should and had everything to do with the man who just walked away. He took away my pain, balancing me from the inside out, clearing my mind, and firing energy into my veins.
I hated that the moment he was near me, nothing in the world existed. Now the ire and hurt from what he had been doing before he arrived here bolted my spine straight, casting back up my armor.
Stepping from the path to where the road was, I found the reason for Ash’s anger.
“You blew up my fucking bike!” Ash motioned to the machine, shattered in charred pieces, flames catching the tree limbs around.
“I needed a distraction.” Warwick shrugged, swinging his leg over his own motorcycle. His weapon was already attached to the back, like a flag waving in warning.
“You couldn’t have blown up his?” Ash gestured to Maddox, who was curled over his legs, hacking and spitting, looking like he wanted to vomit.
“No.” Warwick’s motorcycle roared to life, his eyes sliding from Ash to me poignantly, as if he knew we had kissed earlier.
He spun the bike around, stopping next to me. “Get on,” he barked.
I wanted to say no, to punch him in the face, but we were down a bike, and I knew there was no point.
“Wait.” Ash’s arms swung as I climbed behind Warwick. “How do I get back?”
“Snuggle in close.” Warwick’s eyebrows lifted, nodding to Maddox. “I suggest you drive. He looks like he’s ready to puke.”
“You are a real bastard,” Ash scoffed, his head wagging.
“I really am.” Warwick winked sardonically, the bike peeling off down the road.
And he meant it. Figuratively and literally.
As we tore off down the dirt road, the unmistakable sensation of eyes on me climbed up my spine, jerking my head to the side. I could feel him, his dark beady eyes hunting me from deep in the forest where he hid. He was smart enough to know when he was outnumbered. He would wait to strike. But it was like I could feel Kalaraja’s sentiment crawl over me.
I will come for you again... I always get my mark.
Our motorcycle traveled through the night like a black steed, our dark hair whipping into the air like manes. Dipping temperatures flattened my body closer to Warwick’s. My thighs clutched against his. My breasts pressed into his back, seeking the warmth, and I had to fight the urge to curl into him like a cat. My chest cracked every time I took in a whiff of his rich woodsy scent. I couldn’t describe it, but it was all Warwick, and it felt like home.
I hated him.
No, I wanted to hate him. So much. But even without us reaching out, strumming the cord between us, I felt him buzzing inside and outside of me, pulsing at the edges.
I didn’t ask him how he knew I needed help or how he found us. I already knew. And deep down, without even reaching out, if he were in trouble, I would feel it, and nothing on this planet would stop me from finding him.
With Ash and Maddox behind us, the two motorcycles entered the city, the smell of the impoverished filling my nose. It had grown familiar, a scent that told a thousand words of the harsh life in Savage Lands. The smoke from the factories still clung to the air like heavy fog. The decaying buildings covered with graffiti rose high on either side of us.
My gun was ready to put a bullet into any threat. The city was full of depravity, looking for trouble in the witching hours before dawn. And Warwick and I attracted it like bees to honey.
Tonight was no different.
Pop!
Hoots and hollers rang out, and I whipped my head around to see men on horses ride out from a side street. With hats on their heads and bandanas over their faces, they had guns aimed at us, like a cowboy posse.
Fuck. My gut sank with terror, recognizing the group, though there were more of them today. The memory of our run-in with them last time slammed back into my mind.
The horsemen of the apocalypse. The Hounds. A gang of thieves who would slice anyone’s throat for a coin. They had no conscience or any hesitation about who they attacked. Anyone passing by was fair game, and they would collect payment from you—through your pocket or life.
“Kurva anyád!” Warwick spat, punching the gas, his gaze snapping to Ash.
A bullet pinged off the building right by my head, spewing debris into the air. Shooting back, I watched the horses galloping toward us, gaining on us far faster than I liked.
Warwick snapped the handlebars, squealing the bike down another road, Ash right behind us. Maddox fired back at them.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The sound of gunfire shrilled the night air, bouncing off the buildings, exploding in my eardrums. With every breath, I tensed, ready to feel a bullet sink into my skin.
Warwick made a gesture with his hand, his head darting back to Ash. The friends understood each other with looks and simple gestures after so long fighting together.
Warwick gave Ash a nod when his bike came even with us. Ash responded in kind before peeling off down a side alley while we spun the opposite way, hoping to split or falter the gang.
I twisted, firing back at the four horsemen who came after us, the other three going after Ash. My legs clung to Warwick for life, dread shimmering under my skin, terrified this would be the night our number was up.
Bullets pinged off our bike, scraping close to my body, the heat of the slug sizzling my clothes. Warwick’s muscles tensed. I sensed his need to pull me in front of him, shield me like he was also afraid the next shot would embed itself into my brain.
The clops of hooves on the concrete vibrated my spine, the hollers growing louder, icing my veins with panic.
“Hold on tight,” his voice hissed into my ear, my arms constricting around him right as he snapped the bike to the left, the wheels slipping on the damp cement. His foot struck the ground to keep us upright as he spun us down another street, the engine revving as he tore down the road. Just a few yards later, three men on horses tore from an alley right as we passed, shooting at us.
I yelped in shock, realizing they were the ones I thought went after Ash and Maddox. Instead, they had gone around, coming at us from another angle, boxing in their prey. It was smart. Cunning. Like they knew we were important targets, coming for us as if we really did call out to danger like a siren song.
The horses galloped up next to us, one of them getting right next to the bike. A Hound reached out for me, his fingers wrapping around the strap of my backpack, yanking on it. With a cry, I struggled to keep my balance on the seat, almost falling off. To thieves, the bag might hold something of value—money, drugs, items to sell or trade, but it held nothing of worth in the conventional sense. But to me, it possessed everything: Opie and Bitzy and the last thing I had of my father’s. His words, his thoughts, his writing, and possible knowledge of what I was.
There was no way I would let it go.
Twisting to my assailant, I pulled the trigger right as he wrenched the pack from my shoulders. Bang! The bullet hit its mark, sinking into his side. His body jerked. A grunt huffed from his chest, his frame sliding off the horse.