His Pretty Little Queen: A Dark Mafia, Age Gap Romance (Kids of The District Book 5)
His Pretty Little Queen: Chapter 25

THE WEBBING of trees makes a near-black tunnel that envelops the car as Clay drives us from the campsite, from the dead bodies, ash, and debris. From the executions.

Everything happened so fast.

As though I had only just whispered, “Hello,” to my dad moments ago, then someone hit fast-forward, a blur of events flashing behind my eyes in an instant; the vision of Max taking a bullet for me, of Clay dragging me beneath him. Of bullets flying. Of people dying. Of flames and smoke and ash, and then it stops. And I am dropped into this seat.

In this gliding car.

Where everything is still: the glass blocks the smoke, the tyres roll gently on the whiny road, and the man beside me is as cold as stone, but my heart—

My heart is still on fast-forward. Still mirroring the events that have somehow ended just as they began.

I look down at my body. Belt on.

When did that happen?

When did I get in the car? In this suspended space between the first hello and the last death, I sit, experiencing my body as though it’s been detached.

I feel—the adrenaline.

Feel my heart jumping into my mouth, feel everything inside me moving at a million miles an hour while nothing but the car moves… My body is still back there.

Hands shake.

Legs tight with fatigue.

Skin hot and sweaty.

A growl that should seem otherworldly but in this tunnel of fire only fits the ominous scene, screams passed our car. I barely flinch. More bikes join the thunder. Riding them, Clay’s men and the Butcher brothers break away from us.

The three motorbikes howl up the narrow road like bats out of hell. The only light comes from the eyes of each headlight.

They vanish into the fog’s thick depths.

The car is still and silent again.

I look down at my curled fingers—still clutching, clutching at nothing, at everything, at his shirt, at reality, the past and the present—as they vibrate violently. “Make them stop curling,” I whisper, staring at my hands. “They won’t stop.”

The car slows down. Clay reaches over the seat, unbuckles me, and hauls me across the console to kneel either side of his body. My hands look strange.

“We need to get away from the campsite, sweet girl. Listen to me.” He cups my cheeks with firm authority, forcing me to look at him and focus on his intent blue gaze. His actions offer me a sense of affection, while the hollow depth within his stare forces chills up my spine. He’s the boss right now. Not Sir or Clay. “This is the adrenaline,” he continues methodically. “All you need to do is breathe. That is all your body needs. Can you do that for me, little deer?”

I nod with his hands cradling my face. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He grips my waist, slides me to my seat, and buckles me in before setting off down the road again. Then a hole of normality appears ahead, a break in the forest tunnel, the twinkling of city lights, the end of it…

The smoke holds us to the scene a moment longer, drawing it out, with a large demonic reach until we break through, the grey clouds separating over the bonnet, ripping us from the forest’s grasping fingers.

The clear air circles us, and we’re out.

And I don’t know how to feel.