Page 56 of Sinful Empire (Mount Trilogy 3)
Fearful of what my fingertips will encounter, I skim them along the silk of her kimono until I hit the skin of her neck.
She’s still warm.
“Mags!” I scream her name this time, but get no response.
I don’t know how long it takes a body to cool after the life has drained from it, but I refuse to believe that’s what’s happening here.
“You can’t be dead, Magnolia Marie. I refuse to believe it.”
My left shoulder pulses with each heartbeat, telling me blood is pumping out of my body. I have to stop the bleeding, but first, I need to know if Magnolia is dead.
I find her carotid artery and close my eyes, blocking out my own pain as I pray to God to find a sign of life.
At first, I feel nothing. But then . . . There it is. Thready. That’s the word they use on those ER shows, right? She’s not dead.
“Mags! Wake the fuck up!” I reach out to touch her face, wishing she would answer me, but she doesn’t.
I’m in a silent tomb, surrounded by the bodies of who I have to believe are the missing mistresses. Maybe even Richelle LaFleur.
But how?
Lachlan Mount, the man I married, wouldn’t kill an innocent woman. But that blond bitch? She sounded as fucking crazy as hell.
Who the hell is she, though?
“Stay with me, Mags,” I whisper as I rip off the right sleeve of my blouse to press against my left shoulder. Blood soaks the fabric in seconds.
I’m bleeding out. I don’t know how I know it, but I am.
But if I die, Magnolia dies with me. I can’t stomach the thought.
I attempt to push myself up and stand, desperate to find us both a way out, but agony rips through my body. Black spots dance across my vision as I collapse into the horrific mess with a crunch and a squish.
No, I have to try again. My reserves of strength drain to empty as pain swamps my senses.
As I start to black out again, one last clear thought streaks through my brain.
Lachlan will burn this city to the ground if anything happens to me.
Mount
I know the location of the GPS coordinates way too well. And it makes no sense. Or maybe it makes too much sense . . .
It’s not possible.
I shove away from my desk, grabbing a pistol from the desk drawer.
“What are you doing?” my second-in-command asks.
“Going to find my wife.”
“You married that whore?”
At her words, everything becomes crystal fucking clear.
My gaze snaps to J’s face. “Watch your fucking mouth when you talk about her, and tell me what the fuck you did.” I level the pistol on her.
J came to me after four years and a double major at MIT, spending her weekends and school breaks undergoing private combat training usually reserved for professional security. Battle-hardened was what she called herself as she demanded a place in my organization, saying New Orleans was her home, and I was her only family.
