You Are Mine Little Sister (by Syra Tucker) novel Chapter 142

VOID

I flicked the third blade at the wall without looking, my eyes still glued to the laptop, and the satisfying thunk told me it landed.

I was slouched into the chair, legs long and folded at the ankles atop the table, trying to digest the two images in front of me.

Ginny. And Vlyrissa.

I reached for another blade, this time throwing with more force.

The faces on the screen were exactly the same. Ginny, the bitch that'd hired Blayne and me for the job twelve years ago, was none other than the darling philanthropist society now worshipped as Vlyrissa

I grabbed the bourbon bottle, tilted it until the fire spilled down my throat and dripped from my jaw.

The beast in me was pulling at its restraints. I didn't know how much further I could tame it by throwing knives at the wall and pretending it was Vlyrissa. Or Blayne.

She was the reason I was in this mess. If she hadn't approached Blayne and tried to kill the family who sheltered her, I wouldn't have had any reason to put them in the ground.

Twelve years ago, when Blade had brought the offer and had me do it—because he didn't have the spine to—I didn't bother knowing who had given him the offer. He'd simply told me it was a business rival, and I hadn't bothered to know if he'd been lying or not. Feeling was a luxury I'd never been rich in. So I engineered the accident and walked away.

And now? Now I hated myself more than I hated them.

Another blade flew, cracking into the wall. I pictured it carving her throat. Blade's throat. Mine. Didn't matter anymore.

My cold grey eyes stayed glued to the screen, drinking her in like poison, already contemplating her verdict, which was the riddle eating me alive. Should she bleed out slowly, screaming until her angel's mask peeled away? Or should I make it quick, but excruciating, of course?

My thumb dragged across my lower lip, pausing on the faint scar there

My phone buzzed. Normally I'd ignore it. Eric and the others had been pinging me for days. But something in my gut went knife-edge.

I slid the screen open.

A single image rewrote my pulse:

Rali. Unconscious. Strapped to a dining chair in her apartment. A vest hugged to her ribs—wires like veins, a block taped over her heart.

My breath misfired. I blinked once. Twice. My legs unhooked from the table on instinct, my boots thudding to the floor.

A text rode in beneath the photo:

UNKNOWN: Bomb is going off in five minutes. Think you can save her in time?

Something stalled in my chest—heart, lungs, all the machinery.

Another text popped up:

UNKNOWN: I told you you were messing with the wrong people, brother. You took blood from them, now they want some of yours.

The chair skidded backward and slammed down as I stood too fast. I sprinted out the door.

I drove the fastest I ever had. Broke every damn traffic law. Red meant go, lanes collapsed, and I took whatever space existed, even the space that didn't.

I wouldn't have been surprised if some patrol cars were chasing after me.

I dialed 911, giving them information to lead them to the house. Then, I reached Eric.

"Boss—"

"Go to Rali's house. Right now. There's a bomb. Let the others know."

The line went dead, Eric already moving.

I swerved past a truck at the last minute, getting blares of horns in return. I threaded between a taxi and a bus so tight the mirrors folded.

I reached the apartment twelve minutes earlier, but I was too late.

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