Page 27 of Desecrated Saints
“Sounds hot,” he purrs. “I’m yours to kill, baby.”
Smashing a pillow into his face, I extricate myself from his body and escape before he can tempt me further. In the kitchen, the room has filled up with more sleepy, disgruntled men. I consider my options carefully, taking the space next to Seven on the sofa. I don’t miss the way Kade’s glare intensifies.
“You good?” I whisper under my breath.
Seven’s nostrils flare. “Fucking peachy. When can we go home?”
“This is your home now. Not that cell.”
“The cell was bloody quieter, princess.”
“Just keep it together, ignore everyone else.”
“You mean your boyfriends?” Seven says acerbically.
I rub between my eyes, a headache brewing. “I’m the only one in this room capable of beating the shit out of you. He broke us together, side by side. So don’t underestimate me. I’m running very low on fucks to give this morning and my coffee has run out.”
Seven sinks back into the sofa, carefully studying the room. He’s every inch the violent, mindless soldier that Augustus trained him to be. Kade paces in the kitchen, his fingers flying across his phone while yelling at Hudson to hurry up. My stomach flips pathetically when Eli brings me a fresh coffee.
I catch his hand. “Thank you.”
He shrugs, returning to stand by Phoenix’s side. Lucia and Two have set themselves up in a safe corner, leaving Hudson to stumble out, dressed only in a pair of skin-tight, black boxers that leave little to the imagination. My mouth falls open before I wrench it shut again.
Kade grabs the TV remote. “You all need to see this.”
“What’s this about?” Hudson drawls. “Some of us had a crappy night’s sleep with all the nightmares and screaming going on in this is fucking cottage.” His eyes pointedly stray to me.
“Just shut up and listen.”
Flicking over to a national news channel, we all fall silent as breaking news flashes across the screen. There’s a familiar video playing that chills my blood. CCTV footage of the main building in Blackwood, burning to the ground. Several headlines run beneath the video, emblazoned for the entire world to see.
Prestigious Institute Suffers Mass Riot & Escape.
Tragic Night At Secure Mental Institution.
Blaze Claims The Lives Of Twenty Patients & Staff.
I reach for Seven’s hand as the screen changes, showing fire trucks dousing the flames. Police escort shell-shocked patients into awaiting vehicles to be transferred, dosing them up with medication and restraining a few too freaked out to comply. The sight of body bags has acid burning my throat.
“Why are we watching this?” Phoenix demands.
“Because of this,” Kade answers grimly.
Switching to a live conference, the newscaster falls silent. The camera shot is somewhere in London, framed by the famous skyline. Surrounded by glass monoliths and decadent high-rises, the opulence of a wealthier district is clear. I can see Kade clocking all the details.
There must be dozens of reporters lined up. They all stand and begin shouting when the doors to a grand, blacked-out skyscraper slide open. Flanked by security guards, an elderly man takes a stand behind the microphone, tapping it for their attention.
Smoothing his perfectly fitting, pinstripe designer suit with matching diamond cufflinks, his cold, expressionless face is wrinkled and worn beneath a smooth coiffe of silvery hair. His eyes are the most unnerving thing. I feel like he’s staring straight into the windows of my soul.
“Who the hell is this prick?” Phoenix grumbles.
I gasp while reading the caption.
Sir Joseph Bancroft II.
Founder & President of Incendia Corporation.
“Motherfucker,” Hudson curses.