Azriel's Point Of View
I hauled Arthur's heavy, dripping body out of the pool house and across the gravel pathway like he weighed nothing more than a wet sack of laundry. His skin had already turned a sickly shade of blue-gray, and each labored breath rattled out of him in a way that might have stirred pity in a lesser man. I felt nothing but grim satisfaction, the kind that came from watching a long-overdue debt finally come due.
"Careful with the merchandise, little brother," Lucian muttered, strolling beside me with his hands tucked coolly into his pockets, not bothering to lift a finger to help. "He's already leaking all over your designer shirt. You'll never get the chlorine smell out."
"Shut up, Lucian," I grunted, tossing Arthur's dead weight against the rear door of the SUV. The old man let out a pathetic, muffled groan, his head lolling sideways against the metal panel. "If you carried him, he'd be missing a limb by now."
