Kings of Chaos (Dirty Broken Savages #1)(10)

I got the nickname The Butcher of Seven Mile years ago, and there was definitely a reason for it.

We make it back to the car, and Ash pulls out his phone again, either texting Priest to complain about his night being ruined or trying to coordinate his three-way from a distance. Either way, I strap in and get us headed back to Detroit, turning on some low music to bop my head to while I drive.

I’m in a zen kind of mood after all that, the smell of the fire and the dirt still clinging to my clothes, reminding me of what I just did in a way I really like.

“Home or back to the club?” I ask Ash, looking over at him.

“The club,” he says, grinning now instead of the scowl he’s been wearing since Gage told us we had to take care of the random dead guy.

It’s so late it’s early by this point, but clearly his night isn’t completely ruined.

I give him a sarcastic little salute and drop him off out front, watching him get out and hustle his way inside, dragging fingers through his dark hair as he goes. He’s usually the best dressed out of all of us, the one who puts the most care into his appearance—not that the rest of us are slobs, we just don’t get into that shit the same way he does—and even after burying a body in the woods, he looks like he could’ve walked off the page of some men’s magazine.

I’m sure the ladies will be thrilled to see him.

Pulling away from the curb, I take myself back to the house the four of us share. We’ve been living together practically since we opened Sin and Salvation and went into business for ourselves, after deciding we weren’t going to get absorbed into any of the other gangs in Detroit. They came knocking, trying to recruit each of us for our various skills and connections, but we knew it was just them trying to control us in the end. So now it’s just the four of us, the Kings of Chaos, taking orders from nobody and doing only what we want, and I like it that way.

Priest and Gage are home, but the front room of the house is quiet when I get inside. Gage is probably in his room in planning mode, trying to decide what to do about all the shit we have breathing down our necks at the moment. This girl, Ivan St. James, the thing with the possible gun smuggling—which I still don’t think is that big a deal.

Priest is probably brooding somewhere, or staring off into the middle distance, which seems to be his favorite activity. I love the guy and would kill for him without question, but I don’t pretend to know what goes on in his head most of the time.

Everyone in the house has a place that’s kind of their space, their domain.

Mine is the basement.

It’s where I do all the dirty work that needs doing. Where I handle my business. Sometimes it’s as simple as hurting someone in the right way until they tell me what I want to know. Sometimes, they’re a lost cause and I have to eliminate them altogether. But it’s easy. All of my instruments are down there, the tools of my trade, and knowing Gage like I do, I know the girl we’re saddled with now is down there, too.

I don’t bother to change clothes before I head down the stairs. I want her to see the dirt and blood on me and to smell the scent of burned flesh, so she’ll know how serious we are. Intimidation is always important when it comes to negotiations, after all.

I half expect to see the girl huddled in the corner as far as her chains will let her go. Or for her to be ready to beg for release as soon as she sees me. It always depends when it comes to the people we keep locked up down here.

Some of them are already scared shitless when I show up, eyes wide and the scent of fear hanging on them like cologne. It doesn’t take much to make them start singing for me. And then there are the ones who come in stoic and close-mouthed. Who watch me with defiant eyes and set jaws. They take a little more work, but it’s never too hard to get them to open up in the end. Just takes the right touch.

From what Gage said about this girl, she’s probably the second type. If she wasn’t, she would have already told him what he wanted to know, and she’d be freed or dead by now. But she’s still here, enjoying our hospitality, so she must be stubborn.

I like the stubborn ones best.

They’re more fun, for one. And for another, it’s always interesting to try to figure out what makes them tick. So I’m curious about this girl, and I’m surprised to see her sleeping, head tipped back against the wall.

She must be out of it, because she doesn’t even stir when I step closer to her, looking her over.

Even in the dim light of the basement, she looks sexy as hell. Her dress has ridden up, showing off her long legs, smooth thighs, and tattoos, and there’s a lot of cleavage on display too. Her hair’s a mess, but the silvery color looks good on her.

There’s dried blood on the side of her face from where Gage hit her, and it catches my attention more than anything else. I step closer, breathing her in, and then lean in to drag my tongue up the side of her temple, licking the blood from her face.

It’s sharp and coppery, and I lick my lips, watching her face as she snaps awake with wild eyes.

She lunges, trying to bite me, and I grin, catching her jaw in one hand and pushing her head back against the wall with ease.

“Now that’s not nice,” I say in a teasing voice, grinning at her with her blood probably still staining my teeth a bit.

“What do you want?” she snaps, her dark blue eyes narrowed. She’s trying to get her calm back, but I can feel the way her heart hammers, making her pulse beat faster under my hand. It’s a dead giveaway that she’s startled, like a little deer in headlights.