Page 82 of Light

And then into her other thigh.

“Fuckers.”

And then into the side of her neck, resulting in a grimace that takes care of any remaining outward beauty that might have been trying to persist on her face.

“You won’t end me, you ungrateful miscreants. You won’t end me because too many across the world are now thanking me. Too many have seen the light of what I’m going to do for their disgusting existences and have given me the proper title for it.”

She exalts her stance, which widens the wound in her neck. The deep V of her black bodysuit has become a pool of bright-red gore.

“They call me goddess now—and soon you will too.”

She approaches again, each footstep a vivid crimson print on the floor, as her skin turns paler and her sneer grows more malevolent.

“But first, you’re going to give back what belongs to me.”

Chapter One

Reece

I’ll admit it. Reluctantly.

I’ve been wrong about a few things in my life.

A few.

But at this moment, I admit my complete mistake in thinking I could never fall deeper in love with Emmalina Paisley Crist Richards. My best friend. My key ass-kicker. My kids’ super mom. My hot-as-fuck lover. My cherished wife. My guiding light.

And now, the warrior braced in front of me, fireballs for fists and a disk of sizzling energy for a shield, standing off with the sorceress of skank who’s wormholed her way into our home. Clarification: the invader who’s likely already killed a member of our extra security team before securing everyone else beneath a web of lightning she fabricated as if flinging a handful of rice at a wedding.

Only she’s not at a wedding today. And goddamnit, I refuse to let her zap out of here like she did at the last one, disappearing through her portal with a “special parting gift.” At our wedding reception, that “trinket” was Laurel Crist. One look at the vehement set of Faline’s features and I already know the bitch won’t be settling for low-hanging fruit like that again.

She’s here to take back the whole damn basket.

The prize we snatched from her.

The twins.

And if not them, then equal compensation for them.

Lux.

Or Emma.

Taken by the woman to God knows where. With the Source now decimated, we have no idea of knowing where her backup destination is—and the search for it will be tougher than finding a needle in a haystack. She’s a psycho being shielded by thousands of crazy converts—who are all ready to perform her bidding in keeping nonbelievers in line.

Never.

I repeat it in a snarl for my ears alone, though I’m damn sure Emma’s heard me anyway. She flinches back her shoulders, an unspoken signal for me to stand down. I comply but only for the moment. If Faline so much as twitches one hand in the direction of my woman, I won’t hesitate to jump into the ball pit most men would call insanity: the fray of a girl fight.

I save myself from contemplating an electrically enhanced estrogen takedown by alerting one ear to the movements out in the kitchen. Thank fuck for Lydia, who took advantage of the cover fire from Archer and the Bommers to escape out the door, likely sprinting straight for the kids. Since I can’t detect even a small whimper of fear from that direction now, I’m assuming—praying—she and Angelique took them out the back door and down the stairs.

Possible hitch number one? We’ve practiced this drill with Lux before but not the twins. If either of them has a freak-out on the way down, their flight to safety might be over before it’s barely begun.

And hitch number two? The plan always entails them meeting Sawyer at the ground floor. He knows to drive them to one of several safe houses I’ve secured around the city, with the Newport Beach complex as a last-ditch option only.

Right now, all that matters is what I can effect right now.

The crisis before me.