Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,190

woods. I swear, as he goes, I can see it: the darkness of his temper unraveling like a sea of thorny black roses, spilling out of him to dig their roots into the ground. After a few steps, Victor begins to run.

My breath catches as I watch him go, terrified that I’m going to see my soul mate gunned down while attempting to save the little sister that I love more than anything. He crosses the open, grass-covered space between the end of the Camaro and the start of the woods, just barely ducking into the shadows before bullets rain in his direction.

Turning back to the situation at hand, I scoot over to where Hael is kneeling beside the front tire. He reloads his weapon with ammo that he pulls from his pocket, turning and taking aim over the hood at our enemies.

Including Maxwell Barrasso who, unfortunately, is still alive, there are seven members of the GMP to contend with—four bodyguards, two drivers, and one mob boss. The sound of sirens in the distance alerts us to the presence of the VGTF. Even now, they could be encountering Maxwell’s waiting motorcade.

“You ready, Blackbird?” Hael asks, and I nod, taking aim with my own weapon and preparing for what’s likely to be a bloody and ugly standoff. There are seven of them; five of us. Victor is after Ophelia and Heather, but I know better than to doubt my husband’s skills, the ones he keeps so carefully guarded that I sometimes forget that he is the most dangerous member of Havoc. Not Oscar. Not even Callum. No, it’s Vic motherfucking Channing.

Hands down.

Victor Channing

I creep through the trees, listening for the distant crush of leaves or the snapping of a twig. Ophelia might be able to crawl through the woods on her belly like the snake she is, but Heather is little and makes more than one mistake as the two of them wind through the trees.

“Victor!” Ophelia calls out, finally picking up on the idea that someone’s been following her. And, of course, she just assumes that person is me. Smart. “Get your ass out here or I swear to god, I will take your whore’s sister down with me.”

Even as she threatens me, Ophelia acknowledges that she won’t make it out of these woods alive if she kills Heather. She knows it, and that’s why I’m not concerned when I step out of the trees and into her view.

The ground is mossy and rolling, filling the empty spaces between the trees. Ferns dot the landscape, heavy and dripping with dew as I step between them and pause near a fallen log covered in clusters of brown mushrooms.

It’s all very idyllic, a beautiful place to die.

It’s far nicer than anything Ophelia Mars deserves.

You let them touch me, I think as I stare at her from across the glen and the sunlight drops faint but noticeable kisses on the crowns of our heads. The light reveals all the beautiful shines and highlights of natural variation in Ophelia’s oil-black hair. You let those men ruin me. Sometimes, you watched.

Inside of me, a dark ember burns at my core, one that I’ve banked and smothered and quieted so many times that I’ve lost count. Hold that temper back, Victor, save it. Wield it like a weapon. I’ve said those words to myself so many times. So many, many times. I’ve warned Bernadette and I’ve warned Oscar; I’ve warned Hael and I’ve warned Aaron. I’ve even warned Callum.

Yet, none of them have done what I’ve done, carefully cultivated and tended to that rage until it’s like the nuclear core of a planet, dense and hot and full of seething, primal rage.

“I’m going to kill you today, Mother,” I tell Ophelia because, of all things, I’ve always tried to be a polite monster. The egg donor puts her gun to the little girl’s head, but she doesn’t pull the trigger. She’s as aware as I am that if she does, there is absolutely zero hope for her. I will shed the skin of my human form and I will chase her through these woods like the animal she thinks I am, the animal that she crafted, the boy twisted into a monster of pain and violence.

Carefully, slowly, I start down the moss-covered slope in front of me.

“Back off, Victor,” Ophelia snaps, her beautiful lash extensions catching the light, holding onto drops of sunshine like the dew clings to the waving fronds of the ferns. I smile