Page 157 of Jace
Fury hits me way too fast.
I have every reason to believe Luna and distrust David. I don’t remember anything minutes after I slammed back one drink. Just snapshots of David’s sister, I know, putting me to bed. Then what?
“And you’re Jace Ryan’s woman?” Luna rubs my arm, making me refocus. “Right?”
“Yeah.” But half of me is still searching my memory.
Luna huffs. “So your ex is a dead man.”
Suddenly, like strobe lights, memories return. My bed. Movement. A body. A cuddle? A flash?
He didn’t.
My nostrils flare. Thinking out loud. “Not if I kill him first. Not if I?—”
Shit, David’s phone.
Jace still has him captive in The Queen’s bunker, and I still have his phone at the bottom of my camera bag.
“Hang on.” I turn for my bag on the chair. In a rage, I put down the test so I can dig through to the bottom, yanking out the device.
Tapping it, the battery icon has a red bar. Hardly any power left, but it’s enough for me to open it with his dumbass passcode and click on the photo icon to check the last one taken.
My world shakes like my hands, my breath, my mind when I check the pregnancy test next.
And...
It’s positive.
Moments later, I’m standing on the threshold of The Queen’s office.
She glances up at me from her desk, her elegant face immediately falling at the look on mine. Sasha too. A woman can see it.
The kings whip around, and clock me standing, vibrating with rage.
“Viv.” Jace jumps up, rushing toward me. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
JACE
Here comes the darkness.The closing of the trunk. The fury that frees the beast.
In Vivian’s hands are a phone and a pregnancy test. In her eyes are rageful tears. In her face, I see my future. Her body, mine, no matter what she’s about to tell me. And her heart? I’m about to kill for it, I know.
“He did this.”
Her hand shakes, lifting the scumbro’s phone. Punk-ass had a custom phone case made with his face on it.
But she’s showing me the screen, an image that raises the hairs on my neck, a growl crawling out of my soul, freeing the demons. They charge through my bloodstream, depravity and destruction, claiming my mind.Kill. Kill. Kill.
It’s that fucker with his hands on my woman. It’s that pathetic piece of shit lying on a bed with her, taking their picture. She’s an angel in a white sundress, clearly passed out cold, and he’s a joke in a pink golf polo and lime-green pants with bananas on them.
He’s holding her.
He’s burying his scraggily porno mustache in her neck.
His lips on her skin.
