Page 54 of Knot Your Pucking Secret

“Come home with me tonight?”

I leave my three soon to be mates down at the car. They tried to argue with me, but after promising them I would make it worth their while, I told them to give me five minutes before they came up to my apartment. Sasha looked especially unconvinced, his protective instincts practically radiating off him, but eventually all three reluctantly agreed.

I need girl time.

A moment to breathe.

I want this to be perfect. I want to welcome them into my home the way they deserved. To rewrite some of the wrongs with something positive and new.

The building is quiet, the early hour of the morning making my movements seem that little bit louder. It doesn’t help that I am tipsy, indulging in a few too many glasses of wine. A laugh escapes me as I fumble my keys, the alcohol leaving a pleasant warmth beneath my skin. For the first time since I first arrived, the weight on my shoulders has lifted. Tonight, we won the championship. Tonight, I finally admitted to myself that I wanted pack Ars Mortis. Tomorrow, I can deal with everything else.

My apartment door clicks open and I gently shut it behind me, leaving it unlocked. I take a few steps into the kitchen, tossingthe keys onto the sideboard. The familiar scent of rain and washed linen greets me, wrapping around me like an old friend, before I freeze.

Something is wrong. There’s something off about the air. It doesn’t feel empty.

Every instinct inside me screams.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. My heart stutters before slamming against my ribs so violently it almost hurts. Every lesson I’d ever been taught about trusting my instincts crashes to the forefront of my mind.

Run.

“Thought you could best me, didn’t you, little girl?”

I gasp, my entire body turning to ice. The voice crawls over my skin like poison.

With a slow turn, I face Brett. A pistol is aimed directly at my face, his finger hovering over the trigger. The barrel never wavers. There is a manic glimmer in his eyes. He looks nothing like the man I last saw. It’s as though time has hollowed him out from the inside.

His once dark brunette hair is now streaked with grey, his face sporting wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. Dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes, his jaw covered in several days’ worth of stubble. His expensive suit hangs from his frame, wrinkled and unkempt, as though he hasn’t cared to change in days. He doesn’t look powerful anymore. He looks desperate.

“Brett,” I say with a strength I don’t feel. My instincts tell me to flood the room with fear, but I force my scent back down. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how terrified I am.

He snarls at me, “What? No more uncle formality?”

I snort, trying to feign confidence. The sound comes out steadier than I expect. I need to throw off his game. To get him to put the gun down. To buy myself time. My story doesn’t end this way. Not when I am so fucking close to getting my happilyever after. Not after everything I’ve fought to build. Not when my pack is waiting for me downstairs.

“You lost that privilege the day you decided to fuck over your only niece.”

His jaw ticks, and he rolls his eyes.

“So fucking dramatic. Just like your mother.”

“Don’t you fucking talk about her,” I growl, every muscle in my body locks as the room seems to shrink around me. The words leave me low and venomous. My mother’s memory is the one thing in this world I will never let him destroy.

He just laughs, the gun bobbing lazily in his hand as though it isn’t capable of ending my life with a single pull of the trigger. I try to look at my surroundings for anything I can use. Maybe if I had my own weapon, I might be able to throw him off long enough to get to the door. To try and get some help.

My gaze flicks across the kitchen. Bench. Chairs. Fruit bowl. Nothing.

Come on, Lennon. Think.

I spot my kitchen knife block, just one step to the right, will be within an arms reach of me. They say to never bring a knife to a gun fight, but something is better than the nothing I’m standing with at this moment. I only need one chance. Just one.

While his head is thrown back, laughing at my obvious anger at the mention of my mother, I take a careful step to retrieve the knife, careful not to make a single sound, but scream when he shoots, the knife block exploding, sending pieces of metal and wood flying around the kitchen. Pain lances through my arms as the splinters of wood bury into my arms, while razor sharp fragments slice across my cheek and forehead.

The force of it throws me backwards, my ears ringing so violently that, for a heartbeat, I can’t hear anything except the high pitched whine filling my head. He isn’t warning me. He’s here to kill me.

“Nice try,niece.But you won’t be getting the upper hand on me this time around. No.” He shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the certainty in his eyes far more terrifying than any rage could ever be.

“You won’t be walking out of here alive.”