Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
T he rain lashed against the windshield as Brad navigated the slick streets, the rhythmic thrum against the roof doing little to calm the storm inside his head. He’d just left Isobel at Sophie and Tristan’s, and now he was heading to The Loft, a private club where he’d meet John Larson and Jesse Gentry. Jesse wasn’t just a club owner; he was a man who, as a psychologist, understood the undercurrents of the BDSM community, a gatekeeper to the BDSM corners of their world. Today, Brad needed his expertise.
The Loft’s door was even more hidden by the rain as Brad parked and jogged to the door, his jacket doing little to shield him from the relentless downpour. He was soaked by the time he entered, shaking off droplets as he made his way to Jesse’s office. Inside, John Larson was already waiting, seated across from Jesse, who lounged behind his desk. The room was warm, the soft lighting and dark wood paneling at odds with the grim nature of their conversation.
“Brad,” Jesse greeted, gesturing for him to take a seat. “You’re late.”
“Rain,” Brad replied curtly, shrugging off his wet jacket. His mood matched the weather.
Jesse leaned forward, his piercing eyes scanning both men. “All right, let’s hear it. Bring me up to speed.”
Brad exchanged a glance with Larson before diving in. “We’re dealing with a predator who isn’t just operating in the shadows—he’s using psychology as both his weapon and his justification. Malcolm Hale is targeting psychologists. All highly trained.”
“And all but one dead,” Larson added grimly. “Horrendously tortured before he killed them.”
Jesse nodded, his expression unreadable as he folded his hands on the desk. “I’ve read the reports. Painful days before death. Systematic wounds, as if designed for study. Autopsies that suggest they gave up, surrendered, and then he ended them.” He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers thoughtfully. “First question: these psychologists—were they submissive by nature?”
Brad frowned. “Submissive? We don’t know. They were all strong in their profession.”
Jesse raised an eyebrow. “In their professional lives, yes. But was that their nature? Or a facade?”
Brad hesitated, and Jesse pounced on it. “Let me ask you this, then. How long did it take you to read Isobel?”
Both Brad and Larson stiffened, their expressions darkening. Jesse smirked, clearly enjoying their discomfort. “Oh, don’t play coy with me. You both saw it. She carries herself like she’s in control, but underneath… she’s submissive, isn’t she?”
“Watch it, Jesse,” Brad growled, his voice low and dangerous.
“Relax.” Jesse held up a hand. “I’m not insulting her. Quite the opposite. Submissives like Isobel are special. Strong, intelligent, independent—and yet deeply submissive at their core. A man like Hale? He’d spot that a mile away. And if he’s the kind of predator I think he is, she’s the true conquest. He’s obsessed with her because she represents something no one else does.”
Larson’s jaw tightened. “If you’re suggesting Isobel’s in more danger because of her submissive nature?—”
“I’m not suggesting it,” Jesse interrupted. “I’m telling you. A man like Hale thrives on control, and nothing tempts him more than a challenge. Isobel isn’t just another victim, in his mind. She’s the ultimate prize.”
Brad’s fists clenched, but before he could respond, Jesse shifted the conversation. “Now, let’s talk logistics. There are four adult clubs in South Dakota that cater to our kind. The rest of the events are more like traveling shows—hotel takeovers, private estate parties, that sort of thing. If Hale’s into non-consenting sadism, only one club would allow it.”
“Hot Shots,” Larson said, his tone grim.
“Exactly,” Jesse replied. “But if I were him, I wouldn’t be operating out of a club. Too many variables, too many witnesses. More thorough vetting. He’d want a space he can control completely.”
“Agreed,” Brad said. “But we still need to check out Hot Shots. Any leads there?”
Jesse sighed, scanning the reports on his desk. “Here’s the thing. Every psychologist he’s targeted suffered similar wounds. The patterns are too precise, like he’s running a damn research study. And there’s another thing—the autopsies showed no trace of bodily fluids. No DNA transfer from a previous victim.”
“Meaning?” Larson asked.
“My guess? He’s breaking in new gear every time. Whips, crops, masks, hoods—you name it. Even with the best cleaning techniques, there’d still be microscopic transfer. But with new equipment? Clean slate. Check supply houses. He’s sharpening his skills, refining his methods, and when the victims reach their breaking point—game over.”
Brad exhaled slowly, the weight of the case pressing down on him. “So what now?”
Jesse leaned back, steepling his fingers. “I’ll make a call to Mistress Raven at Hot Shots. She’s… discerning, but she might be willing to meet with you. If you leave now, you can catch her before they open.”
Brad raised an eyebrow. “Mistress Raven?”
Jesse smirked. “Oh, she’s not one to suffer fools. Watching two Doms like you meet a Domme like her? I’d pay to be a fly on that wall.”
Both Brad and Larson growled in unison, and Jesse laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. But seriously—she’s one of the best sources you’ll find. If there’s even a whisper of Hale in her circles, she’ll know.”
Brad stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “And you?”
“I’ll keep digging,” Jesse replied, his tone growing serious. “I’ll see if I can find any party locations or private spaces that match Hale’s needs. This guy is methodical, but everyone makes mistakes. Good luck.”
Brad nodded, his expression hard as stone. “Thanks, Jesse.”
As they left the office, the rain still poured outside. The storm was far from over—both outside and in.
Miles away, as Isobel looked out the window of Sophie’s house, she began a search of property records under the names of Malcolm Hale and Hale’s uncle, Phineas Phillips. Watching the rain pour down in thick sheets, she felt a sudden, inexplicable coldness rush through her. Her breath hitched in her throat, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. Something was off. She knew it in her bones.
Isobel heard the piercing scream rip through the quiet house. Her heart lurched as she bolted from Tristan’s office, her laptop clattering to the floor. The sound was unmistakable—pain, raw and unbearable.
She skidded into the living room to find Molly crumpled on the floor in a fetal position, her body trembling. Blood was pooling beneath her thighs, staining the hardwood floor a deep crimson. Sophie knelt beside her, panic etched on her face, pressing a towel between Molly's thighs in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.
“Isobel!” Sophie’s voice was sharp, frantic. “We need to get her to a hospital.”
Isobel froze, her mind racing. “What about the acute care ward at the Institute? They might have?—”
“They don’t have the blood she needs,” Sophie interrupted. “She’s losing too much too fast.”
Charlotte was crouched on Molly’s other side, holding her hand as she writhed in pain. “It’s okay, Molly, we’ve got you. Just breathe. Stay with us.”
The sound of footsteps thundered down the hall as Dillon and Riley appeared, their faces grim. Without a word, they assessed the scene. Riley scooped Molly up as carefully as he could while Dillon grabbed Sophie and Isobel by the shoulders. “We’ll take her in the patrol car. No time for an ambulance.”
It was a chaotic rush as they squeezed into the back seat, Molly moaning in agony between them. Isobel and Sophie flanked her, kneeling on the floor of the back seat, coaching her breathlessly. “Don’t push, Molly. Hold on. Just hold on.”
The wail of sirens pierced the air as the car sped through the rain-soaked streets. Molly’s breathing grew shallow, and Isobel’s heart clenched as her sister slipped into unconsciousness. “Molly, stay with us!” she cried, but Molly’s head lolled to the side, her face pale.
By the time they reached Waverly County Hospital, the patrol car skidded to a halt, and the doors flew open. Tristan was waiting with the OB team, his face ashen but composed. He and Sophie coordinated with the team as they swept Molly into the OR, leaving Isobel frozen in place, her hands sticky with her sister’s blood.
Isobel sat on a hard plastic chair, her hands trembling as she stared at the crimson smears on her palms. Tears streamed down her face as the situation crashed over her.
Dillon and Riley stood quietly by the door, giving her space but remaining close enough to act if needed. Unable to bear the sight of the blood any longer, Isobel got up and stumbled to the bathroom. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her breath ragged. Turning on the faucet, she scrubbed her hands furiously, the warm water doing little to wash away the ache in her chest.
When her hands were clean, she slumped onto the closed toilet lid and pulled out her phone. Her fingers shook as she dialed Brad’s number.
Brad answered on the second ring. “Belle?” His voice was calm, steady, but the instant he heard her sob, it shifted. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Isobel choked back a sob. “It’s Molly. She—she was bleeding. So much blood, Brad. She collapsed, and we—oh God, she passed out on the way to the hospital. They just rushed her into surgery, and I—” Her voice cracked as she started to cry harder. “I don’t know if she’s going to be okay.”
“Hey, hey,” Brad said firmly, his tone cutting through her panic. “Belle, listen to me. Breathe. Just breathe for a second, okay?”
She struggled to comply, taking a shaky breath as he continued, “Molly’s in the best hands now. Tristan and the doctors are going to do everything they can. Right now, you need to focus on staying calm. Can you do that for me?”
“I—I don’t know,” she whispered, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “I’m covered in her blood, Brad. I can’t stop seeing it. What if she doesn’t make it?”
“She will,” Brad said with quiet confidence. “Molly’s a fighter, just like you. And you’re stronger than you think, Isobel. You’re not alone in this.”
“I feel alone,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “I’m so scared.”
“I know,” Brad said softly. “I’m in Pierre now, and I’ll be there as soon as I can. Until then, I want you to stay close to Dillon and Riley. Don’t go anywhere without them, okay? Promise me.”
“I promise,” she whispered, her voice small.
“And Belle,” he added, his tone gentler now. “I love you. You’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this.”
Her tears slowed as his words sank in, anchoring her. “I love you too, Brad. Please hurry.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he assured her. “Just hold on a little longer.”
She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her, and ended the call. Sitting in the quiet of the bathroom, she let the sound of the water running in the sink fill the silence. She felt a flicker of hope. Brad was coming. And she wasn’t alone.
When she emerged, Dillon and Riley straightened, their eyes scanning her for signs of distress. “You okay?” Dillon asked.
“No,” she admitted, her voice hoarse. “But I’ll be better once Brad gets here.”
They nodded, their silent presence reassuring as they stood by her side, watching over her as they all waited for news.