29. Penn

Chapter 29

Penn

I ’m gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me from flying apart at the seams. The leather groans as if it’s a living thing capable of pain. The world outside blurs into a chaotic mess of speeding cars and honking horns, but all I see is Reagan—Reagan leaving me, Reagan in danger, Reagan needing me. My mind’s full of scenarios that always end with someone dead.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, pushing the gas pedal down harder. The truck roars in response, eating up the distance faster than I can think.

“Shit Penn, her location’s moving,” Ramsey says, his voice tight with urgency. He’s hunched over his laptop in his hands, fingers flying across the screen. “She’s not at Wellington anymore.”

“Goddammit,” I snap, my heart pounding like a sledgehammer in my chest. “Sync that fucking tracker to the nav system. Now.”

“Already on it. I have to backdoor my own code,” he replies, not missing a beat. Ramsey’s always had this annoying way of staying cool under pressure, like he’s got ice in his veins. But right now, I need him to be as desperate as I am.

“Come on, come on,” I hiss, eyes darting between the road and the GPS that doesn’t fucking have my wife’s location on it yet. Every second feels like a lifetime. Images of Reagan flash through my mind. It’s enough to make my blood boil.

“Fucking got it,” Ramsey says, tapping the screen one last time. The truck’s GPS system chirps to life, and a red dot appears on the map, shifting away from Wellington Academy.

“Goddamn finally,” I grunt, yanking the wheel to make a sharp turn. Gravel spits out from under the tires, the truck fishtailing for a moment before regaining traction. “I don’t want any more surprises.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like I can control where the fuck your wife is going,” Ramsey mutters, his eyes glued to the screen. “Just don’t crash us before we get there, alright?”

“Shut up and do your job,” I shoot back, but there’s no real heat in it.

The landscape changes as we barrel down unfamiliar streets, closing the distance between us and that damned red dot.

“Penn,” Ramsey’s voice cuts through the silence, softer now, almost hesitant. “We’ll get to her. She’ll be okay.”

“She better be,” I growl, the words more for myself than for him. Because if she’s not…God help anyone who stands in my way.

“Focus,” Ramsey says, a rare note of gentleness in his tone. “You can’t afford to lose it now. Don’t check out. I can’t handle you and help your wife right now.”

We barrel off the main road, gravel crunching loudly beneath the tires as we speed toward an abandoned airport hangar.

“Almost there,” Ramsey says, his voice barely above a whisper now. “You ready for this?”

“Ready?” The only answer I’ve got is the searing rage that’s taken over every cell in my body. Ready isn’t even the word. I’m beyond that. I’m a goddamn hurricane of anger, and nothing’s gonna stop me. We’re close enough now that I can see them—Reagan on the ground, her face pale, her eyes wide and wild with fear, and some piece of shit crushing her windpipe like he’s got a death wish.

The truck skids to a halt, the smell of burning rubber mingling with the scent of old oil and decay. I barely throw it into park before I’m out of the cab, feet hitting the ground hard, reaching behind my seat for the Glock, but it’s not there. Fuck! My fingers find the tire iron instead. Fine. This’ll do. It’s almost better—it’ll make things up-close and personal.

My switch is flipped. I crack my neck before I feel my mask fade and who I am, who my father took and molded into his perfect son is all that remains. No time to think, no time to plan. Just pure, unfiltered rage.

I launch myself at him, my body moving faster than my mind can keep up with. There’s a primal roar ripping from my throat, a sound I barely recognize as human.

Death.

My boots pound against the gravel as I close the distance faster than I’ve ever moved in my entire life. As I get closer, everything else fades away—the sound of Ramsey’s footsteps behind me, the crunch of gravel, even Reagan’s gasps for air—all gone. All I see is him and her, and all I know is that this guy’s got about two seconds left to live.

I hit him like a freight train; the impact sending us both sprawling to the ground. The tire iron feels heavy and solid in my hands as I swing it down with every ounce of fury coursing through me. The first hit lands square on his shoulder with a sickening crunch.

Another crunch, this time his ribs—I can feel them give way under the force.

He tries to fight back, but he’s no match for me right now. I’m a goddamn monster. He claws at my face, gets a few hits in—a split lip, maybe a bruised cheek—but it’s nothing compared to what I’m dishing out.

Then I see someone running out of the corner of my eye. Instinct takes over before thought does. “Ramsey! Go after them!”

For a second, everything freezes as Ramsey bolts after the fleeing figure, leaving me alone with Reagan and this scum beneath me who’s barely hanging on.

“How does it feel, huh?” I spit, the tire iron now slick with blood. “You think you can just put your hands on her and walk away?”

The man’s cries turn into desperate gurgles, but I don’t stop. Not until he’s nothing but a broken, dead heap at my feet. Each hit is fueled by a singular thought: protecting Reagan, eliminating any threat to her safety.

“Penn,” her voice is barely above a whisper, raspy like her vocal cords are bruised. “Psycho, stop.”

The world screeches to a halt. My arm freezes mid-swing, the tire iron hovering inches from its next target. Her eyes, those honey depths, lock onto mine. For a split second, the rage evaporates, replaced by something raw and unrecognizable.

“Hellfire?” The word slips out, almost inaudible, as if saying my name for her could somehow bring me back to the ground.

Her gaze doesn’t waver, even though she’s barely holding on. I see the flames in her eyes, the same fire that first drew me to her, now flickering weakly but stubbornly refusing to die.

“Fuck,” I breathe out.

She’s up, shaky but fierce, and before I can fully process it, her combat boot crashes down on the attacker’s ribs with a sickening crunch.

“Thought you could take my fucking sister, huh? Fucking coward,” she snarls, each word punctuated by another bone-jarring stomp. There’s no mercy in her eyes, just raw, unfiltered rage. The same kind of rage that’s been simmering beneath her stoic exterior since the day we met.

I can feel her wrath wrapping around me. My own fury momentarily suspended, watching Reagan unleash hell. Her words are jagged shards of glass, each one cutting through the fog in my mind.

“You think you own her?!” she screams, another stomp making the man’s body spasm like a broken puppet. “Think you can buy and sell women like cattle?” Her voice cracks with emotion, raw and trembling. Each stomp is accompanied by a confession wrapped in indignation and despair.

She grabs the tire iron out of my hand, and I let her take it. I’m curious to see what she’ll do with it. Instead of stomping on him now she lifts the metal above her head and rains hits down on the bastard below her. It’s as if every blow she lands on this scumbag is a blow against every monster from her past.

Her anger is intoxicating, almost poetic in its brutality. The rhythmic crunch of bones gives way to an eerie silence as the man beneath her finally stops moving. She drops the tire iron; it thuds against the ground, crimson stained. Reagan’s chest heaves with exertion, eyes wild and vacant.

For a split second, our eyes meet, and I see it—the same darkness that shadows my soul reflected in hers. We’re two sides of the same fucked-up coin.

The guy’s body is limp, the life having drained away in an instant with that final blow. Reagan stands over him, blood splatters her face, her hands, blending with the sweat and tears.

“Shit,” I mutter, stepping closer. My hand reaches out, brushing against her arm. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“You’re fucking crazy,” she whispers again, her voice softer now, almost broken.

“Yeah,” I reply, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Well, we both fucking are.”

“Fuck,” Reagan breathes, wiping a smear of blood from her cheek. The motion is almost tender, a sharp contrast to the violence we’ve just committed. Her combat boots are stained, her knuckles bruised, but there’s a fire in her eyes that can’t be extinguished.

“Welcome to the Blackwood psycho side,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Population: us.”

She shoots me a look that could melt steel, but there’s a flicker of something else there too—understanding, maybe even acceptance.

“Well,” I say, voice rough as sandpaper, “that was one hell of a date night.”

Reagan lets out a shaky laugh, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth. “You really know how to show a girl a good time, Blackwood.”

“Always aim to please.” My eyes flicker over her, taking in every detail.

“Shut up,” she growls, biting down on my bottom lip just hard enough to draw blood. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

So I do. I kiss her like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, pouring everything I have into that single, searing connection. It’s messy and desperate and utterly consuming, a collision of need and fury that leaves us both gasping for air.

“Goddamn it,” I pant, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Likewise,” she replies with a wicked grin, her fingers trailing down my chest, leaving a burning path in their wake. “But what a way to go.”

“Crazy bitch,” I mutter, but there’s no heat behind it. Just an overwhelming sense of…something. Something that scares the hell out of me even as it draws me in deeper.