Page 277 of Psycho Pack

And another.

"What thefuck?" Whiskey bellows again as Azarel continues walking down the line to the last remaining Council member.

Azarel ignores him as he finally comes to a stop in front of Monty. The beta is trembling in his restraints, and the front of his trousers darkens as my brother approaches. Considering this is the same man who left his omega at the mercy of the enemy, I can't say I'm surprised.

But I am repulsed, all the same.

"Don't do it," I warn, torn between reaching for my own gun and not wanting this to come to a fight to the death unnecessarily. "They were our leverage."

"Wrong," Azarel says calmly, the revolver hanging casually from his left hand as he studies our last sniveling pawn with a degree of coldness that's surprising, even for him. "They were witnesses. I can't have you handing them over to the remnants of Reinmich that rise from the ashes and blowing my cover, now, can I?"

Whiskey's eyes narrow and he looks like he's ready to lunge. "You son of a?—"

Before I can stop him, Ivy pops out of her hiding spot and grabs him by the wrist, hauling him back with her. Azarel ignores them both, his attention fixed on Monty.

I watch my brother, trying to read his face, but it's like staring at a marble statue. Cold. Impassive. Yet something has shifted beneath that icy exterior since our confrontation at the church.

"We can work together," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the tension locking my muscles up. "There's another way."

Azarel's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of something almost human behind that carefully constructed mask. Something like nostalgia.

But it's gone as quickly as it appears.

"You chose your path, brother," he says, his voice carrying less venom than before. Almost... respect. Or maybe just resignation. "And I chose mine."

Before I can respond, he turns back to Monty. The beta's eyes go wide as Azarel raises his gun and presses the barrel against Monty's forehead. The wet stain on Monty's expensive trousers broadens.

"Please," Monty whimpers, his voice cracking. "Please, I'll do anything. Have mercy!"

A cold smile curves Azarel's lips and for once, it touches the ice in his eyes. "Beg," he says simply.

Monty freezes, confusion flickering across his features.

"I want to hear you beg," Azarel clarifies, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "The way she did. And we'll see if it works as well for you now as it did for her then."

I exchange a look with Ivy, seeing the same realization in her gaze as they harden with fury. The same rage darkens Whiskey's eyes.

This isn't the first time these two have crossed paths.

Far from it.

Beside me, Whiskey shifts uncomfortably, but he makes no move to intervene. Even he can read the room well enough to know this isn't our fight anymore.

Monty's pathetic blubbering fills the chamber as he realizes the gravity of his situation. "I'm sorry!" he wails, tears and snot running down his face. "Please, please don't shoot! I'll do whatever you want! Anything!"

His coherent pleas eventually dissolve into hysterical sobs and curses alternating with even more desperate bids for mercy.

There's none to be found in Azarel's gaze as he stands there, watching and listening, drinking it all in.

Savoring it like a fine wine.

I've never seen my brother smile like this before. It's not just cold or cruel. It's vindictive. Satisfied. Like a predator finally cornering its prey after a very long hunt, licking its lips before taking the first bite.

"Goodnight, Monty," Azarel says softly, almost tenderly, a mocking sneer curling his upper lip.

The gunshot echoes through the chamber like thunder.

Monty's body crumples to the floor, joining the other Council members in their growing pool of blood on the marble floor.