"This is all your fault."

In all the course of his life, of all the shitstorms he had survived and overcome, of all the knowledge that he had accumulated, nothing prepared him for this moment.

Nothing prepared him for the splintering of his ribs, the removal of his heart and the fucking bitch-sized boots that grinded it into the ground.

"How so?" Kernal asked. Arms folded and face lacking even an ounce of pity, the beast of a man had a sour look plastered across his puss, nostrils flaring at the accusation.

Pacing coming to a halt, Stryker spun on him. In the small kitchen, surrounded by sliding glass doors...