Misted (Team Zero #5) by Rina Kent

“Tell them to lower their guns or it’ll be your brains.”

“You fucking —” I shoot one of the bodyguards in the shoulder and the other in the leg then return to holding Croft under the barrel of the gun.

With my speed, they couldn’t even react. My guess is that these arseholes only took care of small-time problems, not a real threat like me.

“Weapons. Down,” I repeat in a cool, indifferent tone.

“Let them go.” Croft swallows audibly, the stench of fear floats from his pores.

The non-injured guard’s eyes bulge as he carefully puts the gun on the ground, never leaving my gaze. His two colleagues wail in pain, their hands soaked and dripping with blood as they clutch their wounds.

“What do you want?” Croft asks. “Is it money?”

“You’ll double your purchases of the drugs.”

“What? That’s fucking nonsense. We have to control the market.” He attempts to loosen his tie but I kick the back of his knees, forcing him to fall on his knees with a thud.

“Goodbye then.”

“N-no, no!” He screeches like a schoolgirl. “I’ll do it, I’ll fucking do it. Don’t shoot.”

It’s pitiful how he and people, in general, hold on to life with everything in their might.

What’s so bad about dying? Everyone will. Today or tomorrow means fuck.

“You’ll never show your face here again. Everything will be done from a distance.”

“I— ” I shove my feet in his back and he screams. “Fuck. Fine!”

“One more thing.” I clutch his hand, the same hand that he had on Mist’s thigh and throw him down so his chest is on the ground. He tries to fight, but I push him with my feet on his back and pull until a pop sounds and his hand snaps from its joints.

He screams so loud, it echoes around us. The non-injured bodyguard appears green and on the verge of puking.

It’ll take Croft months to heal from this.

Still not fucking enough.

“Touch Mist again and your head will be next.”

I throw his limp hand and straighten. “If you go back on any of your promises, I’ll find you and torture you until you beg to be killed.”

I wish he makes a mistake, just a tiny one would do, and I’ll take pleasure in ending his life.

Until I finish my business with Mist, no one is allowed to even look her way.

No one touches her and gets away with it.

They didn’t all those years ago when I was a lesser teen and they won’t start now.

I hate her.

I’ll destroy her.

But no one fucks with what’s mine but me.





11





Mist





I can feel you when I thought feelings were impossible.



The familiar rush of adrenaline shoots through my veins and tightens my muscles.

I want to say it’s because I’ve been slowly, but surely relapsing to a stronger dose of Omega since Ghost left, but that’s not it.

The crowd roars with bloodthirsty energy as Shadow and Hawk pound their fists into each other.

Scar, Flame and I stay at the podium in President Joe’s underground fighting ring beside the owner himself.

The stench of alcohol and cigarette permeates the air as President Joe places bet after a bet on his grandson, Shadow. To think that freak has a family was the surprise of the century, but thanks to his familial connection with one of the biggest underground lords, President Joe himself, he turned into our friend instead of our foe.

“Shadow, Shadow, Shadow…” The crowd chants with rhythmic energy as he takes momentum.

Scar jumps up and down in her huge tulle yellow skirt, screaming Hawk’s name at the top of her lungs. “Kick his arse! Bring that little shit down, Hawky!”

Flame sits with eyes half-closed and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

I’m sitting, too, but not due to indifference like Flame. If I stand up, my feet won’t carry me. From the outside looking in, I appear as blank-faced as Flame. I sit with one knee crossed over the other, wearing my black, Haute Couture Chanel dress with my hands flat on the chair’s armrests.

On the inside, sick fear grips me by the soul.

Both Shadow and Hawk are in shorts. Their chests glisten with sweat and perspiration. Even from this distance, I can smell the excess of adrenaline mixed with the monstrous remains of Omega.

And Hawk, damn him straight to hell. He’s six feet plus height of taut muscles and pure freaking testosterone. Despite my state, I clench my thighs at the sight of him in his full glory. My attempts to subdue the throbbing ache at my core fail miserably. He’s lost weight during his captivity, but the hard-looking six-pack remains the same. A few newer and some older slash marks run across his back.

I bite my lower lip as memories of that day flashback in my mind. When I lost him forever.

A 3D style hawk is inked along Hawk’s bulging bicep, and his long wings fall on either side of his upper chest and back. The over-realistic drawing — Ink’s trademark — make it appear as if the hawk will fly him away any moment.

And it did countless times.

I haven’t been around him for this long in forever, and while a part of me wants him gone to not aggravate the disaster brewing at the backmatter of my life, another part craves his nearness. Because of that stupid, foolish part, I wake up every day with dread perching over my chest, afraid that he left in the middle of the night.