Depraved Desires

Book 2: Villains & Vices

by Morgan Bridges

Genres: Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Romantic Suspense; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

The USA Today bestselling author of Once You're Mine delivers the finale of the wickedly steamy, dark romance duet following a criminal psychologist in a game of cat and mouse with her serial killer patient.

My monster isn’t locked away anymore. He’s free. And he’s mine. 

Every wall I once built between us has been demolished, replaced by Ghost’s merciless obsession. He isn’t my convicted patient anymore. He’s my shadow, my captor, and my addiction. Except it’s not my fear he wants anymore. It’s my total surrender. 

The deeper I fall into Ghost’s world of vengeance and destruction, the more I see the truth: He doesn’t just crave me. He wants to remake me in his image. And the most terrifying part? Somewhere in the darkness ... I want it too. 

So, when I uncover the brutal truth about my parents’ deaths, a fire ignites in me. Revenge. The killers thought they buried their sins with the bodies they left behind. They never expected me to unearth them. Now Ghost and I share a hunger that no justice system can contain. Together, we’ll make them bleed. Or die trying.

Depraved Desires is Book 2 in the Villains & Vices duet. It contains explicit sexual content and a morally gray hero that's over the top jealous/possessive, a stalker who falls first, has Touch Her & Die energy, and is willing to do whatever it takes to have her.

Trigger warnings: stalking/obsession, blackmail/coercion, breaking and entering, violence, murder, attempted rape (not by the hero), and grief.

Release date: June 23, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

THE PHONE TREMBLES IN MY HAND AS I SHOVE IT INTO MY POCKET and grip the bars of the cell.

“Guards!” I shout, my voice echoing through the empty corridor. “Get your asses down here. Now!”

The silence is mocking, the usual shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of guards’ voices absent. I slam my fists against the bars, the metallic clang reverberating through the cell block.

“Jennings! Shaw! Barlow! Carr!” I bellow, my throat raw from the force of my shouts. “One of you fuckers need to let me the hell out of here!”

My chest tightens as I replay the feed in my mind. Skinner’s shadowed figure scaling the fire escape, each calculated movement bringing him closer to Geneva. The image of her oblivious pacing, her vulnerability, makes my vision blur with rage.

“Don’t fucking ignore me!” I roar, slamming my palm against the steel bars again. And again. The vibrations rattle through my arms, doing nothing to ease the fire burning in my gut. “If you don’t let me out, I will kill each and every one of you.”

A faint shuffle echoes down the hallway, and relief shoots through me. I strain against the bars, trying to catch a glimpse of movement.

Finally, a guard appears, his baton in hand. It’s Shaw. His expression is a mix of irritation and wariness, like he’s debating whether it’s worth the risk of talking to me.

“What’s going on, Ghost?” Shaw asks, his voice carrying the tone of someone who’s facing death incarnate.

I lean forward until my face is inches from his. “Let me out.”

Shaw freezes, his brows knitting together. His hesitation has me wanting to reach through the bars and break his fucking neck. But I can’t, or the other guards might not let me out despite the Malones’ influence over them. And by “influence,” I mean extortion.

“Open the fucking door,” I snap, my patience hanging by a thread. “You can cuff me, track me, hell, shoot me if you want, but I’m getting out of here.”

Shaw hesitates for a fraction of a second longer before moving toward me. The sound of the lock disengaging is a balm to my fraying nerves.

The moment the door slides open, I’m moving. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

I’m coming for you, Geneva.

Every step feels slower than it should, every second wasted grating on me. I run at a full sprint, heading for the back exit the guards won’t stop me from using.

I yank my phone from my pocket, my fingers flying over the screen as I scroll to one of Malone’s men. The line barely rings once before a gravelly voice answers.

“Ghost.”

“Get your ass to the back lot. Now,” I say, my voice a lethal growl. “You better be there by the time I’m in the parking lot.”

There’s a pause, but only for a second. They know better than to question me. “On it. Five minutes.”

“You’ve got three.” I hang up without waiting for a response, shoving the phone back into my pocket as my boots pound against the pavement.

By the time I burst into the night, the cold air hits me like a slap, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Geneva isn’t a means to an end. She means everything.

The tension in my chest coils tighter with every moment. Skinner, the infamous serial rapist. The thought of his hands on Geneva—the same hands that have left a trail of broken, brutalized women—sends another wave of fury crashing through me. He’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.

As I round the corner of the lot, the gleaming black SUV comes into view, its headlights cutting through the darkness. I stride toward it, throwing open the passenger door and sliding in without a word. The driver, one of Malone’s best, doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He knows the drill.

“Where to?” he asks, his voice clipped.

I give him the address, and the directive to haul ass. The tires screech as he guns the engine, the SUV tearing down the deserted streets. I grab my phone again to check the camera feed. Skinner’s on the final flight, his hand reaching for her window ledge.

I slam my fist against the dashboard, the crack of my knuckles barely registering. “Drive faster.”

The man glances at me, his expression tight, and presses harder on the gas. The SUV roars forward, the city blurring into a mess of lights and shadows outside the window.

Geneva’s phone is still sitting on her coffee table in the feed. Still untouched. She hasn’t seen my warning.

My mind races. I don’t pray, but for her, I might make an exception. Just this once.

God, please save Geneva. I can’t go through that type of loss again…

THE MEMORY OF MY LAST VISIT WITH GHOST REPLAYS IN MY MIND on a loop, no matter how much I try to shove it aside. His words, his hands, the volatile energy between us that’s always present.

I shouldn’t have gone. Ghost isn’t the kind of man you face unless you’re ready to walk away scorched. And I wasn’t ready.

The way he looked at me, like he was daring me to admit the truth. Like he could see every lie I was telling myself. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Testing me.

Pushing me.

Breaking me.

Until there was nothing left but the jagged edges of my own obsession. And God help me, I let him. Then I provoked Ghost further by bringing myself to orgasm in front of him.

The expression on his face was worth it.

My fingers tighten around the coffee mug in my hands, the warmth doing nothing to soothe the chill that’s settled deep in my chest. I can still feel the press of the bars against my back, the heat of his breath on my skin, and the way his hand wrapped around my throat. It wasn’t to hurt me, but to control me. To own me.

And I wanted him to.

The last thing he said to me echoes in my mind, soft and dangerous: “This isn’t over. You will admit it.”

The truth. The one thing I’ve spent my entire career defining, analyzing, and chasing. Yet when it comes to Ghost, the truth is slippery, elusive, and just out of reach. Or maybe I already know it, and I’m too scared to face it.

He’s right about me always running.

I glance at my phone on the coffee table, the temptation to check for a message from him gnawing at me like a drug I’m desperate to quit. I tell myself I won’t look. I won’t feed the obsession.

But I already know how this ends.

I’ll always look.

The phone practically vibrates with unspoken tension from where it sits. I stare at it like it might bite me, every logical part of me screaming not to give in. But logic doesn’t mean shit when it comes to Ghost.

My feet move before my mind catches up, carrying me across the room. My fingers tremble as I pick up the phone and swipe it open. The screen lights up with a text notification.

Unknown: Skinner is outside your apartment. Get out of there!

My heart stutters, a cold rush of dread flooding my veins. My first instinct is to dismiss it, to tell myself this is just another one of his mind games. But the sinking feeling in my gut says otherwise. Ghost doesn’t waste words. If he’s saying this, it’s because he knows something I don’t.

Unknown: Hold on. I’m coming for you.

I read the words again, my mind spinning. But I force myself to focus, to think rationally. If Skinner really is outside, then what the hell am I supposed to do? Stay here and wait for Ghost? Call the police?

The phone vibrates in my hand again, and I glance down to see another message:

Unknown: If he touches you, I’m going to cut his arms off and use them to beat the shit out of him. And then kill him.

The finality in those words hits me like a physical blow. This isn’t about some test or game. This is real. And Ghost—dangerous, unpredictable Ghost—isn’t just warning me. He’s promising me.

Protection.

Retribution.

Annihilation.

The words on the screen blur as my pulse pounds in my ears. Ghost’s warning, his vow, echoes in my mind, louder than the fear coursing through me. My instincts kick in, adrenaline surging as I shove my phone in my pocket and bolt toward the back door, where I keep the baseball bat.

My breaths come fast and shallow, my fingers fumbling as I grab the bat from where it leans against the wall. Its familiar weight in my hands does little to steady me, but it’s better than nothing.

The apartment is too quiet. The kind of quiet that screams something is wrong. I tighten my grip on the makeshift weapon as I scan the living room. Every creak of the floorboards under my feet sounds obnoxiously loud, and I force myself to stay calm, to stay sharp.

I’m reaching for my phone to call the police when Skinner emerges from the hallway, his hulking frame casting an ominous shadow against the furniture. His grin is twisted, smug, and it makes my skin prickle with disgust. He’s taller than I remember, broader. His presence fills the space, shrinking it, suffocating me.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice low and dripping with malice. “It’s nice to see you again, Dr. Andrews.”

My heart races, every muscle in my body screaming at me to run, to fight, to do something. I raise the bat, despite how much my arms are trembling.

“What do you want?”

Skinner chuckles, the sound unsettling. “What do you think? You’ve got a debt to pay. And I’m here to collect.”

I take a step forward to avoid being cornered. Then I gesture to the front door with the bat. “Get the fuck out.”

His grin widens. “I don’t think so. You and me are going to have a chat.”

My palms are slick with sweat, my hold on the bat slipping a little. Skinner’s taunting me, feeding off my fear. But I won’t back down. I can’t. Instead, I tighten my grip and shift my stance into something defensive.

One thing is certain: Skinner isn’t walking out of here unscathed, either because of me or because of Ghost.

However, Skinner isn’t someone I can overpower or run away from. My only hope is to delay his attack. To distract him long enough for Ghost to get here. Right now, a serial killer is my only hope of survival.

I lift my chin. “I said, get the fuck out.”

Skinner takes a step closer, his grin twisting into something darker. “I don’t think so, Doc.”

It takes everything in me not to flinch at the nickname Ghost uses for me. Hearing it on Skinner’s tongue taints it, sickening me with its presumed familiarity. But I can’t deny we have history.

“Do you know what I remember most about your trial?” I ask, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest.

The corners of Skinner’s mouth twitch, showcasing his piqued interest, without it lessening his desire to harm me. Then he tilts his head slightly, signaling that he’s listening.

“You sat there like you didn’t have a care in the world,” I continue, my eyes fixed on him, studying his face for microexpressions. “But you weren’t calm. You were seething.”

He scoffs. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

I take a step sideways, making it look casual, keeping my movements smooth and unaggressive. “I saw a frustrated man desperate to control the narrative. Why, Skinner? Why would you care what people think about you?”

“Isn’t it your job to know, Dr. Andrews?”

I nod slowly. “There was something you didn’t want anyone to see, hence the anger over the lack of control concerning your story.”

Skinner’s smug expression falters, a flicker of unease breaking through. I press on, taking note of the shift in his posture. It’s in the slight stiffening of his shoulders and the way his fingers twitch as though resisting the urge to lash out. He’s uncomfortable with this subject. Good.

“There was something under all that rage,” I say, my tone softer now, almost coaxing. “Something you couldn’t control. Something that terrified you.”

The skin around his jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, his gaze darts to the side before snapping back to me. It’s quick, but I catch it. He’s avoiding something.

“What were you trying to hide, Skinner?” I keep my firm grip on the bat but lower it slightly, as if the conversation has my full attention. “Why did those women make you so angry?”

“They didn’t,” he snaps, his voice defensive. “They were nothing.”

“Nothing?” I repeat, raising a brow in challenge. “Were they something you couldn’t have? Or maybe they represented a normalcy you couldn’t reach?”

Skinner takes a step closer, his grin now absent, replaced with a glare that practically burns through me. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“But I do.” My voice hardens, cutting through his denial. “You hated them because they represented what you thought you should want. What you were told you should desire. But deep down, they were a reminder of how different you felt.”

Skinner’s nostrils flare, his breathing growing heavier. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

“You punished your victims. Every woman you hurt was a proxy for the shame you couldn’t escape.”

“Shut up!” he roars, his voice cracking with rage.

I don’t flinch, meeting his gaze head-on. “You hated them because they represented the lie you were living. And you took that hatred out on them because you couldn’t face the truth about yourself. You’re a homosexual.”

FOR A MOMENT, THERE’S NOTHING BUT SILENCE BETWEEN US. SKINNER’S chest heaves, his glare wild and unhinged, but there’s something else there now…It’s shame. The truth has cut through his bravado, exposing a wound he’s spent his entire life trying to hide.

“You’re wrong,” he says, spittle flying from his lips. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

I adjust my grip on the bat to free my hand and lift my shirt, exposing my bra. Skinner’s eyes dart to my breasts, but instead of lust or satisfaction, disgust flashes across his face. His lips curl, and his nostrils flare, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I shrug and release my shirt to hold the bat with both hands. “You’re here to rape me, but the problem is that you feel nothing toward me except revulsion. Likewise, but that’s not my point. You’d prefer a man instead of me.”

Skinner’s snarl deepens, and the fracture in his composure shatters completely. His body tenses, and in a flash, he lunges at me, a feral growl tearing from his throat.

I barely have time to react.

Gripping the bat with both hands, I swing with everything I’ve got, aiming for his midsection. The crack of wood meeting flesh echoes through the room as the bat connects with his ribs. Skinner staggers, a sharp hiss escaping his lips, but it’s not enough to stop him.

He charges again, his movements wild and unpredictable. I swing, this time aiming higher. The bat collides with his shoulder, sending him stumbling back with a grunt, but he recovers too quickly, his hand darting out to grab the bat’s handle. His grip is iron-tight, his strength overwhelming.

Panic fills my limbs as we struggle for control of the weapon. I pull with all my might, but his weight and leverage make it impossible.

“Being a homosexual is nothing to be ashamed of,” I say. “I can help you understand and embrace it. And how to drown out the voices that made you feel unworthy for something that’s completely normal.”

Skinner’s face twists into a grotesque mask of rage, his grip on the baseball bat tightening as his knuckles blanch. He yanks the object toward him, dragging me closer, his strength far exceeding mine.

“Listen to me,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth, utilizing the precious second I have left. “It doesn’t have to be this way. Let me help you.”

“Shut up!” He wrenches the weapon out of my hands and hurls it across the room. It clatters to the floor, leaving me defenseless.

My heart pounds as I back away, instinctively lifting my hands. Skinner advances, his steps slow and purposeful, his breaths coming in harsh, ragged gasps. His eyes are bright with insanity, drilling into mine with an intensity that has my blood running cold.

He halts, his fists trembling at his sides, the conflict in his gaze undeniable. For a moment, I think I’ve reached him. That I’ve broken through his psychopathy. But then his lips curl into a sneer, and the fire in his eyes burns brighter.

“I’m going to enjoy fucking you.”

“You better do it before Ghost gets here.” I tilt my head, my expression thoughtful. Mocking. “Or maybe you’d prefer him over me?”

Skinner’s gaze darts toward the door for the briefest second.

“He’s coming,” I say, utilizing the moment of hesitation. “And when he gets here, he’s going to kill you. And deep down you know it. That’s why you’re so desperate to finish this before he arrives.”

Skinner laughs, but the sound is hollow, lacking confidence. “You think he’s going to save you?”

“I don’t think. I know.”

“Then I’d better hurry.”

Skinner lunges at me without warning, his fist connecting with my jaw in a blow that sends me staggering backward. Pain explodes across my face as I slam against the wall, struggling to regain my balance. He’s on me in an instant, grabbing my arm in a punishing grip and dragging me toward him.

“I remember your friend,” he says, his voice dripping with venom. “She didn’t fight me nearly as much as you. Maybe she lied about not wanting it.”

I lash out with a scream, aiming my foot at his shin, and making contact. He grunts, his grip loosening just enough for me to twist away. I push against his chest with all the strength I can muster, and he stumbles back a step. But it’s not enough.

He recovers quickly, his hand shooting out to grab a fistful of my hair. Searing pain rips through my scalp as he yanks me to him. I claw at his wrists, my nails digging into his skin, but his grip doesn’t falter.

“Nice try, Doc.”

“Fuck you.”

Before I can suck in a breath to insult him again, Skinner slams my head against the wall. Stars burst across my vision, the world spinning as a dull, throbbing ache radiates through my skull. My knees buckle under me, and I collapse to the floor, the hard surface cool against my cheek.

Blood trickles down my face, warm and sticky, obscuring my already blurred vision as I struggle to lift my head. My body feels heavy, uncooperative, refusing to obey my command to move. To save myself.

Above me, Skinner looms, his shadow cast over me like a grim reaper’s cloak. He crouches down, his breath hot and sour against my face.

“You’re pathetic,” he says. “All that talk and for what? Look at you now.”

He reaches out to touch my head, his fingers coming away coated in blood. My brain screams at me to defend myself or to run, but there’s nowhere to go.

“You should be scared,” he whispers, his voice low and cruel. He reaches for the drawstring of his pants, untying the knot. “By the time I’m done with you—”

The sound of the front door slamming open cuts through his words like a gunshot. Skinner freezes, his head whipping toward the noise.

“Geneva!”

Ghost’s voice echoes through the apartment like a thunderclap, filled with a panic I’ve never heard before. Skinner rises to his full height, facing Ghost and the direction of the front door.

Just hearing his voice is enough to bring tears to my eyes. Through my blurred vision I can barely make out his face as his gaze zeroes in on me. I’m lying motionless on the floor, desperate to signal to him that I’m alive, but I can’t move and my eyelids are half lowered.

“No,” Ghost breathes, the single word filled with an anguish that guts me. His gaze snaps to Skinner, and the rage that consumes Ghost’s face is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He clenches his fists at his sides, his entire body tense and ready to unleash violence.

“Look who finally showed up,” Skinner says, his tone mocking. “But you’re too late.”

Ghost glances at me once more before his composure snaps.

He moves with a speed that’s almost inhuman, closing the distance between them in an instant. His fist slams into Skinner’s jaw, the sickening crack echoing through the room as Skinner stumbles back, clutching his face.

But Ghost doesn’t stop.

He grabs Skinner by the collar, yanking him forward before driving a knee into his gut. Skinner doubles over, gasping for air. Before he can recover, Ghost throws him against the wall, the impact rattling the pictures on the nearby shelf.

“I’m going to make you suffer,” Ghost snarls, his voice shaking with rage. “You’re going to beg me to fucking kill you.”

Skinner tries to fight back, swinging wildly, but Ghost blocks each attempt with a precision that’s terrifying. He slams Skinner’s head into the wall again, this time hard enough to leave a crack in the plaster.

I try to sit up, but the pain in my head is unbearable. Lying there, I push through the agony to give him proof that I’m alive.

“Ghost,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He freezes, his head snapping toward me. His grip on Skinner loosens, and he lets him fall to the floor.

Ghost is by my side in an instant. He drops to his knees, his hands shaking as he reaches out to touch my face. “Geneva,” he says, his voice raw with anguish. “Are you—can you hear me? Jesus Christ, answer me!”

I manage a weak nod.

His eyes scan every inch of me, taking in the blood, the bruises, the way I’m struggling to stay conscious. His jaw tightens, his fury reigniting as he looks back at Skinner, who’s groaning on the floor.

Ghost exhales shakily. “I’ve got you, Doc. Everything’s going to be okay.”

His hands are impossibly gentle as they cradle my face, his thumbs brushing away tears I didn’t even realize were there. The fury that had consumed him moments ago is nowhere to be found, replaced by a tenderness that nearly breaks me. His touch is grounding, even as my world goes in and out of focus.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, his voice soft but urgent. “Geneva, look at me. That’s it. Good girl.”

I try to keep my gaze trained on his face, the intensity of his eyes pulling me back from the edge of unconsciousness. “You’re here,” I whisper.

“Where else would I be? Don’t worry, you’re safe now.” Ghost’s tone is hard, like he’s willing that to be true. He takes a deep breath, his gaze filling with so much fear, it has me frowning in confusion. “Did he…?”

Ghost’s voice trails off, the question too horrendous, too devastating to say out loud. His eyes search mine for a truth he’s terrified to uncover. I watch the way his body tenses, as if bracing for a blow, and it’s clear the mere thought is torturing him.

I shake my head quickly, understanding immediately what he can’t bring himself to ask. “No,” I say, my voice firm to erase any doubt. “It didn’t get that far. You got to me in time.”

Relief floods Ghost’s features so profoundly, it’s as if he’s been given a second life. The stress drains from his shoulders, and he closes his eyes for a brief moment, a prayer of thanks whispered under his breath. When he looks at me again, there’s a fierce protectiveness, a resoluteness in his gaze that has me shaking. Ghost’s hands remain on my face, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the cold dread that had filled him moments ago.

The sounds of movement snag my attention, and through the haze, I find Skinner. He’s no longer crumpled on the floor. He’s scrambling toward the door, his movements frantic. My heart lurches as I watch him bolt out of the apartment.

“Ghost,” I croak, tugging weakly at his sleeve. “He’s getting away.”

Ghost doesn’t even glance back. His attention is entirely on me, his hands never leaving my face. “I don’t give a fuck about him right now,” he says. “You’re all that matters.”

“No.” I grip his arm with as much strength as I can muster. “You have to stop him.”

“Geneva—”

“Go,” I insist, cutting him off. My voice shakes, but there’s no mistaking the urgency in it. “He’ll come back. You know he will. You have to stop him.” When Ghost doesn’t move, I say, “Please. Do it for me.”

He clenches his jaw, the internal war playing out in his eyes. For a moment, he’s completely still, torn between protecting me and chasing the man who nearly destroyed me.

“I’ll be okay,” I say. “Go. Please.”

Ghost exhales sharply, pressing his forehead against mine for the briefest moment. “If anything happens to you while I’m gone…”

“It won’t,” I promise, even as my vision swims. “Go.”

He stares at me, his resolve visibly cracking. “You know what I’ll do to him…”

I nod.

Ghost stares at me, his hazel eyes blazing with emotions I can’t fully comprehend. Anger, fear, pain, and something deeper that twists my heart. “I won’t hold back, Geneva. After what he did to you… I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“I don’t want you to.”

I know what I’m asking. I know what it means to him. And yet I can’t take it back. Not when Skinner is out there. Not when he could hurt more women if he gets away.

Ghost scoops me up effortlessly, cradling me against his chest. His movements are swift but careful, and he strides to the couch, lowering me onto the cushions with a gentleness that brings tears to my eyes. He grabs the throw blanket and tucks it around me.

“Stay here,” he commands softly, brushing a strand of hair from my bloodied face. His fingers linger on my cheek, trembling slightly. “Don’t fucking move. I mean it.”

I manage a weak nod, my eyes locked on his. There’s vulnerability in his expression, a desperation that tears at me. He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead, the warmth of it calming me in a way nothing else can.

“Rest,” he murmurs against my skin. “I swear to God, Geneva, I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.”

With that, he straightens, pulling his phone from his pocket. His hands are steady now, his voice calm but clipped as he speaks into the phone. “I need an ambulance for the victim of a home invasion who has a head wound that requires medical attention.”

He rattles off the address, his eyes darting between me and the door as he speaks. The second he ends the call, he’s moving, his focus shifting entirely to the hunt.

Just before he steps out, he pauses, glancing back at me. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is steady as he says, “Don’t you fucking leave me, Geneva.”

Then he’s gone.

I sink into the couch, the adrenaline draining out of me, leaving only exhaustion and the cold realization of what I’ve just set into motion. I close my eyes, praying that Ghost’s darkness won’t swallow him whole. That he’ll come back to me the same man as before.

Not as someone I don’t recognize.

MY SKIN PRICKLES WITH ANTICIPATION AS I TEAR THROUGH THE lobby, my boots slamming against the floor. Every breath is fire in my chest, but I don’t slow down. I can’t. Not when that piece of shit is out there, running, breathing, thinking he’s going to get away with what he’s done.

Geneva’s bloodied face flashes in my mind, her eyes fluttering closed as I held her. The way her body sagged against me, too limp, too still. My stomach churns, an acidic burn finding its way up my throat. If I think too long about how close Skinner was to taking her from me, I’ll lose it.

And I won’t be able to function.

The SUV screeches to a halt at the curb, the driver looking at me like I’m a fucking grenade with the pin yanked out. He’s right. I’m ready to explode with violence. I yank the door open and climb in the back seat, my fists shaking as I slam the door shut.

“Where?” he asks, his voice tight.

“Head east,” I snap, pulling my phone from my pocket. The live feed from the cameras outside Geneva’s apartment comes up, grainy but clear enough to see Skinner’s frame as he disappears into the maze of streets behind the building.

I grip the phone so hard, the screen cracks. Doesn’t matter. I already know where he’s heading. The industrial district. He thinks he can lose me in the abandoned warehouses and crumbling factories.

“Let’s fucking go,” I snarl.

The tires screech as the driver floors it, the city blurring past us in a haze of light. I lean forward, the seat belt cutting into my chest as I strain to stay focused. My blood roars in my ears, every nerve in my body screaming for vengeance.

Skinner isn’t just going to die. He’s going to fucking suffer. I’ll carve his screams into the night air and make sure the devil himself knows to fear me.

Or welcome me home.

“You okay back there?” the driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

“Shut the fuck up and drive,” I snap. My skin feels too tight, my body in pain with the amount of restraint I’m exhibiting. The only thing keeping me in control is the thought of Geneva. Her voice, weak but resolute, telling me to go. To stop him.

Her faith in me is the only thing holding me together. But it’s also tearing me apart because I failed to protect her.

“Left,” I bark. The SUV veers sharply, the tires skidding on the damp asphalt, and the warehouses loom ahead, the structures like sentinels in the dark.

The SUV slows as we enter the dis. . .