Page 41 of Knife Thrower

His orgasm triggers mine.

The climax rips through my core, shattering my vision into white-hot fragments. I scream, my inner thighs clenching tight against his ears, my back arching off the bed as wave after violent wave of pleasure tears me apart.

We ride out the aftershocks in the ringing silence of the trailer.

Cole slowly pulls his face away from my thighs. His chest heaves, slick with sweat. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, his dark eyes absolutely wrecked, tracking the slow drip of blood trailing down his shoulder.

I drop the knife onto the quilt. My lungs burn as I drag oxygen through my teeth.

I meet his stare, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in my throat.

“I think there is something seriously wrong with us,” I whisper.

Cole chuckles, the sound raspy and breathless. He leans forward, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

“Seems like our demons dance well together, Archer.” He drags his thumb through a drop of his own blood, smearing the crimson across his skin. “And who am I to spoil their fun?”

15

COLE

The heavy metal door of the meeting trailer groans as I push it wide open, keeping a hand flat against the frame so Sloane can follow me inside.

The air smells like burned coffee, diesel fumes, and morning irritation. Half my brothers slump in mismatched folding chairs. Silas stares a hole through the screen of his sleek laptop, his fingers a blur over the keys. Jonah rubs a massive hand over his jaw, his eyes heavy with sleep. Logan balances a paper cup on his knee, yawning wide enough to crack cartilage.

Then they notice the blonde woman stepping past my shoulder.

Logan’s yawn snaps shut. A wicked, bright grin stretches across his cheeks. He kicks a metal chair out with the steel toe of his boot, the legs scraping harshly against the linoleum.

“Morning, blondie. Welcome to the family.”

Jules and Wren offer warm, quiet smiles from the corner booth. Nova beams from her perch beside our illusionist, one hand resting protectively over the massive curve of her pregnant belly. Teddy hovers, as usual.

Sloane doesn’t retreat. She doesn’t scan the exits. Her spine stays perfectly straight. She crosses the room, claims the empty chair, and folds her pale hands in her lap.

I move to the front of the trailer, rest my hips against the edge of the central table, and cross my arms over my chest.

“We have a priority target.”

The sluggish morning energy vanishes. Spines snap straight. Coffee cups hit the wooden table with heavy thuds. Eleven pairs of eyes lock onto me, then slide in perfect unison directly to Sloane.

Elias leans forward and rests both gloved hands over the ruby tip of his cane. His pale gray eyes pin her with an intense, terrifying focus.

Sloane pulls a long, deep breath into her lungs. The severe line of her mouth trembles for a fraction of a second. She forces her jaw tight, killing the weakness, refusing to let the trauma dictate her voice.

“My stepfather.” The words ring clear in the cramped space. “His name is Raymond. He abused me for years before I finally ran away. I used to pick the lock on his study. I found documents hidden in his desk. Gray pamphlets talking about preaching purity through pain. Binders full of photographs of hollow-eyed kids and men in suits.”

Rowe goes rigid. His knuckles turn bone-white where his hands grip the edge of the table.

“Sanctum of Ash.”

Sloane meets Elias’s stare, holding the ringmaster’s gaze without an ounce of fear.

“Yes. I know he at least attended their quarterly meetings.”

The silence in the trailer turns lethal. My brothers don’t need to exchange looks or whisper questions. The homicidal rage rolling off them becomes a tangible, suffocating weight. The air pressure drops.

Sloane swallows hard. Her fingers twist into the fabric of her gray sweatpants.