Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Yes she is,” I sighed. “Unless you’re going to kill an innocent woman. Because I’ve got a feeling that’s the only way to get rid of her.”
A vein pulsed in Colby’s cheek. He didn’t speak for a long time. I knew he wasn’t considering it. Colby had a code. The Sons of Templar had a code.
“You know the Salem Witch Trials?” I asked, capitalizing on the silence.
His forehead creased as he frowned with what I guessed was confusion. The Salem Witch Trials weren’t exactly related to our current conversation.
Instead of questioning what the fuck I was talking about, he just nodded.
“Yeah, they had the best publicity, even though they'd been burning women for thousands of years,” I said. “For being too outspoken. Too different. Too sexual. For being creatures that threatened men’s way of life. Made them uncomfortable.”
Colby was frowning as I spoke, likely understanding where I was going.
“The publicity for the murders has been about him,” I spat. “About what made him what he was. How he chose his victims. And the victims were talked about in regard to the way they lived their lives, how they made themselves easy prey. How we made ourselves easy prey.”
My mind replayed the look in that reporter’s eyes. The hunger.
“No one knew I was a victim,” I blew out a heavy breath. “No one knew someone survived.” I fingered his cut. “Now that they do, it’s going to be a feeding frenzy.”
I looked up at him.
“They still burn witches, Colby,” I told him. “The flames are just different now.”
Colby was still frowning, stewing over my words.
“No,” he wrapped his hands around my upper arms. “No,” he repeated. “No one is burning you. No one is fucking touching you. This is stopping.” He reached into his cut, grabbing his phone and putting it to his ear.
“We need church, now,” he snapped at whoever he’d called.
He put his phone back in his cut, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “We’re gonna fix this. I’m gonna fix this.”
I nodded because he needed me to believe him. Not because I really did. I could already feel the flames at my feet.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Colby had called church and, apparently, had set events in motion to transform the entire clubhouse. When we emerged from Colby’s room, the party had stopped. All of the extra people were gone. Some club girls remained, cleaning up. Some of them smiled and nodded to me. I waved back.
First, Colby took me into the kitchen to get me a coffee and a sandwich. A smart idea. I’d had a lot to drink and nothing to eat.
The coffee and food worked to make me more alert, not completely sober, but I’d manage.
It was probably good I had a little liquid courage in me when Colby walked me through the double doors labeled ‘church.’ Those doors were always closed whenever I was there. Off limits. It was where club members had meetings about criminal enterprises, cock fights, which woman had been claimed and was now in trouble … fuck if I knew.
I’d thought about it a bunch, curious about the inner workings of the club.
Now I was inside.
With a full table.
I swallowed hard when eyes landed on me as we entered the room, a prospect quickly scrambling up to give me a seat. I took it, trying to move steady, to not let my unease show.
It was impressive that everyone had arrived so promptly, considering the hour and that a lot of them had families. I shot what I hoped was a jaunty grin at Swiss when he caught my eye, and he winked back. I averted my gaze from everyone else, who were likely wondering what the fuck I’d gotten myself into now.
Luckily, all eyes went to Colby when he recounted what I’d told him.
“What the fuck is a reporter doing here now?” Colby bit out. “It’s been two goddamn years.”
“Caroline used her connections to bury the story—or at least Sariah’s part in it,” Jagger replied, eyes bouncing toward me. “We did what we could to make sure nothing led back to her. But there was always a chance that someone determined enough would get info, despite Caroline pulling strings.”
I’d figured Caroline had done something since she used to be a big shot journalist. This place had been crawling with reporters, so at least one of them must’ve been smart enough to figure out there was more to the story. Luckily, a lot of them were distracted by the gruesome crimes and the attractive sheriff who’d committed them. He was this generation’s Ted Bundy. Whoever did figure it out must’ve received a visit from Caroline, likely with her scarred and scary husband next to her.
I made a mental note to send Caroline a basket of French skincare in thanks for the respite.
“We need Wire digging up every piece of dirt he can on Emily Ryan,” Hansen said, jumping right into president mode.