My psychos want to lock me in a cage. I'm ready to break out.
I survive being hanged. Barely. Now my Hangmen have decided I'm never leaving the house again.
One rope scar. One medically induced coma. My beautiful, broken men taking shifts beside my bed as if death might come back the second one of them blinks.
I wake up unable to speak. That doesn't mean I'm without a voice.
The Hangmen think keeping me safe means barred doors, twenty-four-hour surveillance, and never letting me out of arm's reach. They want to shelter me from the dark. But surviving didn't make me fragile-it gave me teeth. I don't want to be locked away while they hunt the rat bastard who strung me up.
I want a mask. I want a blade. I want to watch them bleed.
The only problem? My possessive killers are coping with my brush with death by losing their minds.
Micah still holds me together in the dark, but behind the sweet smiles, his own cracks are starting to show.
Holden hides behind law and order to mask his panic, a control freak who wants to lick my wounds clean.
Milo turns stalking into a love language and trauma into a punchline-right up until the joke stops being funny.
Knox puts a knife in my boot, strength back into my body, and himself between me and every threat.
And Eli? The less said about him the better.
Somewhere between recovery, revenge, and a bed big enough for giants, the boundaries about who belongs to whom are going up in flames.
But someone is still sending threats from Brock's phone.
Brock is dead.
I know because I killed him.
Whoever is using his number knows what happened beneath the jetty. They know how the Hangmen hunt. And they know exactly what it takes to make five killers afraid.
They almost killed me once.
They won't get another chance.
Some secrets stay buried.
Others need to burn.