Haunted by Secrets (Shadowed Souls #3)

Chapter Thirty Six

The ballroom hums with low-murmured conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. The chandeliers dim, casting a gentle golden light as music begins to play through the hidden speakers. Slow, sensual tones, no doubt meant to encourage dances of the same nature. Sharon may not be here, but she’s still managing to manipulate the evening.

Those still with companions couple up and take to the center of the dancefloor, and it becomes apparent that over half of the Lots are left out. They line the walls, scowls etched into their faces as they glare at Garrett and me. The man on my arm puffs out his chest, the leather jacket separating ever-so-slightly to hint at the tattoos beneath his mesh top. A part of me blossoms with pride, this being the closest he’s ever come to showing off the muscled body he hides. But that part is sadly overshadowed, my mind remaining elsewhere.

For the hundredth time in five minutes, I glance back at the open double doors. Whatever is happening, Huxley is still firmly out of my reach, and I don’t think I will rest until he’s back with me.

Wyatt notices, of course. He’s been watching me closely since we rejoined him and Dax by the window. His sharp, green gaze is rooted on my face, but he says nothing. Dax is pretending he’s not checking me out, but the PVC catsuit on my body fits like a second skin. My cleavage is scandalously exposed, and a sliver of misery cuts through me as I think how much Meg would have approved.

I twist to look out the window, although nothing greets me but darkness. Breathe, Aves , I hear Meg’s voice in my head. You’re getting close. It won’t be much longer. I wish my mind’s tricks worked, but they do the opposite. The chasm between myself and my twin has never felt so vast. And Garrett being Garrett, he’s decided the best way to keep me from spiraling is to keep my hands full. Literally.

"Here," he says, shoving another flute of champagne into my hand. "Drink." I arch a brow at him, lips pursed, but he only grins, plucking a tiny canapé from a passing tray and pressing it to my lips. It smells like truffles and something expensive I can’t quite place. "And eat. We can’t have you drinking on an empty stomach."

I sigh but let him push it into my mouth, chewing absently. The rich, buttery taste barely registers. He’s already turned back, relieving the waitress of her tray and telling her to ‘ jog on’ . This time, he feeds me something wrapped in prosciutto, and I take it without argument. It’s easier than telling him I don’t have much of an appetite when my stomach is a twisting mess of nerves.

“Good girl,” Garrett whispers, but his usual flirtation lacks heat. He’s distracting me the only way he knows how. Wyatt nudges Garrett with his elbow, muttering into his own champagne flute.

“That’s my line.”

My gaze drifts to the double doors again, hoping I can will Hux into walking through them. Instead, a man walks past, following the hallway towards the gardens. My brow twitches, but I can’t decide why. A moment later, he’s back, clearly lost, and this time, he pauses for a second to peer inside and then quickly strides away again. Something about him feels familiar, although the champagne is making my brain sluggish. I feel like I should recognize him, but not in this setting. He just feels wrong.

A touch at my wrist makes me flinch, the glass flute dropping from my hand to smash at my heels.

"Fuck, Peach," Garrett gasps, his hand on my wrist tightening. He drags me a step to the side, still balancing his tray in his other hand, and lets Wyatt scrape the glass aside with his dress shoe. Dax steps into me, his blue eyes glistening with concern .

“Is everything okay?” Dax tilts his head, careful not to crowd me. My chest is heaving slightly, panic rising, although I don’t know why. Convincing myself I’m being an idiot and that I am in fact just a bit tipsy, I nod.

“I’m fine, I just thought I saw… I don’t know, he looked a bit like?—”

Dax’s phone starts to buzz loudly from inside his jacket pocket. He frowns, excusing himself before stepping away to take the call. Wyatt’s nostrils flare as he rejoins us, the air growing thick around us. I feel it, Wyatt feels it, and Garrett seemingly does not. He pops another canapé in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he glances down at my heels.

“You know if the whole ballet thing doesn’t work out, have you thought about becoming a foot model? There’s a whole market out there for cute dainty feet pics.”

Wyatt looks to the ceiling for patience. I’m sure his response would have involved the market of sweaty old men with foot fetishes. Mine would have been a sarcastic comment about a ballerina's feet being the least ‘cute’, given the blisters and sores I sport after grueling training sessions.

But neither of us gets to voice them.

“Thiago’s seen something,” Dax returns to whisper harshly. “We need to go.”

“Go… to go where?” My eyes widen. He could have said leave the ballroom, return to Axel, and retire to bed. But he didn’t. He just said ‘ go ’, in a decisive tone I don’t hear from Dax often. Dread seizes my spine, my entire body running cold in an instant. Dax turns to Wyatt, leaning in to keep his voice quiet.

“Plan D,” he mutters. Wyatt’s eyes flash, then return to their steady coolness. He nods and removes the platter from Garrett’s hand with unnerving calm. Placing it down, his hand then touches my lower back, and he smoothly urges me out of the ballroom.

“Wyatt, what?—”

“Trust me,” he interjects. Dax and Garrett, who is suddenly back in bodyguard mode, flank us as we turn out of the ballroom. Our steps are unhurried, a false pretense of the terror grappling inside my chest. I thought we’d go straight back to Axel, but instead, we veer right and step into an empty billiard room along the hallway. The door is pressed closed with a click, and suddenly, Wyatt rounds me, his hands clasping my upper arms.

“Do not fight me on this,” he says sternly, but where I previously would have taken his tone as hatred, I now know it to be fear. Wyatt is scared, and that’s enough to make me nod along.

“Please, just tell me whatever it is,” I beg. Wyatt releases my arms, pulling me into a brief yet firm hug, his lips pressing against my forehead.

Oh, fuck. This is bad.

“Thiago caught something on the ballroom security feed just now,” Dax steps forward, his face ashen. “A face he didn’t recognize, so he ran it through his software.”

“And who is it?” Garrett folds his arms, the leather jacket squeaking in protest. Dax rolls the words around his mouth before parting his lips to speak.

“Thiago said it’s Avery’s dad. He’s here in the mansion.”

My pulse spikes. Fredrick is here. As if he can preempt the direction of my thoughts, Wyatt steps into my eyeline again, blocking out everything except his green eyes.

“Don’t even think about it,” he growls. Two other bodies cage me in, which is all that keeps me from crumbling to my feet. “Fredrick won’t come alone. We can’t risk sitting here for his men to storm the mansion. I’ll find Huxley, and we will search for Fredrick together. Gare, help Avery to get Axel ready for moving.”

“We could take one of the minibuses,” Dax adds thoughtfully. “There will be enough space for everyone, and the seats will recline for Axel to lie down. I’ll convince the doctor to pack up and come with us.” Even Garrett seems in agreement, and as the silence settles like a weighted blanket on my shoulders, I realize they’re waiting for me to speak. Licking my lips, my throat is suddenly dry, my limbs numb.

“I have to see him,” I whisper, already anticipating their response. Wyatt growls, Dax almost whimpers, and Garrett curses, but at least the three of them step back to give me some room to breathe. I notice too late how I’ve walked into their trap, an empty room with a closed door. They knew I’d try to run. So, instead, I try to find Wyatt’s soft spot for me. “He has Meg. This could be my only chance to get him to give her back. ”

“At what cost?” Wyatt hisses, knowing the answer. At any cost. He’s shaking his head, but Dax steps into my side, running a hand over his face.

“We’re losing time. Gare, get Axel ready. I’ll grab the Doc and Thiago, and we’ll be right there. Wyatt, take Avery with you.” Wyatt glares venomously, but Dax doesn’t back down, his fingers linking with mine. “She will do this whether you permit it or not. At least if you agree, you’ll be there to protect her.” Blinking up at Dax, my eyes fill with tears that I refuse to let fall. He kisses my cheek, his lips remaining against my skin.

“Be safe, Swan. Come back to me.” He releases my hand and sweeps out of the room without waiting for a response. Garrett’s jaw is tight, but he leaves too, not hanging around to make a big declaration. I breathe shallowly, facing Wyatt. I know he’d rather I hid in the background, that I was some sweet little submissive he can cage to keep safe, but this is my fight.

“We can’t run from this,” I say stoically, shoving down all of my own fears to placate his. I’ve known for a while that the time is coming to face Fredrick, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Wyatt sighs, striding towards the door.

“Can’t you ever do as you’re told?”

“If that’s what you wanted, you should have picked a different girl to fall in love with.” I turn on my heels, watching his back tense up. There’s a powerful shift of muscle beneath his shirt, as if he’s struggling to reign back a monster living within his skin. Bracing a hand on the door, Wyatt glances back at me, his hair flicking forward.

“I really had no choice in the matter.”

I suck in a harsh breath, and he leaves. Rushing to remain by his side, we slow as we enter the main lobby. Nothing appears out of place, students flirting with the few patrons they have left or each other. After an unsuccessful night, some have chosen to find solace in each other, making out by the grandfather clock or straddling on the stairs.

Wyatt bypasses the staircase leading to Axel’s wing. I glance up, nibbling on my bottom lip in an effort to calm myself. Dax and Gare will have that side covered, and nothing bad will happen to Axel.

We pass the frat-style living area, games room, and kitchen, taking the set of stairs across the other side of the mansion. This is where the other guests rooms are, and presumably where Hux will be entertaining Warren. I shudder at the thought, but urgency pushes me forward. We don’t need Hux to seduce the chief of police anymore; Fredrick is right here.

Wyatt is a man on a mission, his face set like stone. He whips open each door, revealing the room beyond. Most are empty, some occupied, to which he receives a round of harsh cursing. Wyatt does care, striding onto the next while I mutter apologies and close the doors again after a good look that Hux isn’t present. Some images will never be scrubbed from my brain after tonight.

Somewhere along the way, I find my hand in his. I’m not sure who initiated it, a mutual desire for comfort and a way for him to drag me along. We’re nearing the end of the hallway, another set of stairs apparent in a left alcove. These ones aren’t as wide, but just as grand. Cast iron railings and marble flooring, the smudge of a dirty man’s footprint on the bottom step. I share an apprehensive look with Wyatt.

Suddenly, a door bangs open beside us. I stifle a scream as a very disheveled, pale Huxley stands there, his chest heaving. His blond waves are wild from having fingers combed through them, his pupils blown wide, and his shirt open. His pants are firmly buttoned.

“I got it,” Hux breathes, his voice not quite his own. I reach for him instinctively, but his focus is on Wyatt. The leader who sent him on a mission, and now he’s ready to report back. Producing a wrinkled piece of paper, the edge torn hastily at an angle, there’s an address scribbled on it. “Fredrick’s place. It’s a witness protection hub, which is why Thiago couldn’t find it. The bastard is pretending he’s scared of the other inmates, all the while he’s working with them.” Wyatt takes the paper from Hux and pats his arm, his head hanging slightly.

“The bastard is here. Thiago caught him on the ballroom cam.” I didn’t think Hux could turn paler, but he manages it. I use the moment’s distraction to peek beyond Hux’s frame and into the room. The bedsheets are a ruffled mess, but only because Warren Briggs is lying on the covers. There’s a red mark blooming along his cheekbone, like he’s been hit.

“Did you beat him up?” I gasp.

“Well, I wasn’t going to fuck him?!” Hux says incredulously. “I just needed to get him upstairs to knock him out so I could access his phone. The trickiest bit was prying his eyes open for his face ID.”

“I thought the plan was to drug his whiskey?” Wyatt raises a brow. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Of course, he was in on this.

“It wasn’t working quick enough. He almost got his tongue in my mouth.” Hux shrugs and steps into the hallway, closing the door to block my view. Wyatt exhales sharply, his fists clenched at his side. But before he can say whatever’s brewing in that dangerous head of his, a new sound cuts through the air. A violent one from the floor above us, as if something has been smashed.

Wyatt and Hux both freeze, but only for a split second before they’re running up the stairs to our left. I have to race to catch up, half hearing a whispered growl from Huxley asking why I’m here. I push aside my exasperation, focusing on the hammering of my heart trying to leap out of my chest.

At first glance, the third-floor hallway appears empty, but then we hear raised, angry voices seeping through the crack in the door at the end.

“Sharon’s bedroom,” Huxley says grimly. I don’t want to know how he knows that. Wyatt doesn’t hesitate. His long legs eat up the distance, his body thrumming with lethal tension. Huxley is a step behind him, his expression unreadable, while I push forward, ignoring the instinct screaming at me to slow down. For us all to not run into this, fists first.

Wyatt throws the door wide, but our presence goes unnoticed. The room is as lavish as I’d expect from Sharon. Deep red drapes, a four-poster bed with gold trim, a vanity cluttered with expensive perfume bottles. Through a set of stained glass doors, figures jerk and shout from the balcony.

The display is jaded by the colored glass, but we creep forward, catching Sharon’s slender form holding her own against a man towering over her. His back is to us, but he’s tall, broad, and dressed in a dark suit that fits just a little too stiffly. His fingers are wrapped tight around her wrist.

“Let go, you bastard!” she snarls, twisting violently. Something gleams between them, caught in a game of tug-of-war. I squint to see what it is—the flash of metal catching the moonlight. Whatever it is, Sharon grits her teeth, digging her heels into the floor as she struggles to twist it free.

“Give me the drive,” her attacker jerks her closer, his voice dangerously low. Wyatt stiffens in my peripheral.

“Go to hell,” Sharon hisses back, wrenching herself sideways. I can see what’s coming, like a scene from a movie that has me stepping into Huxley’s side and my hand curling around his bicep.

“You first,” a low growl sounds, and he shoves her chest, ripping the flash drive free at the last moment. Sharon’s eyes go wide, her body pitching backward. For a split second, she flails, trying to grasp onto something, anything. Then she’s gone. Her scream echoes, shrill and raw, before it cuts off with a sickening thud far below.

A breath of stillness follows, horrified and thick. My fingers start to tremble against Huxley’s shirt fabric, his body twisting to draw me in. Tilting his head to my ear, he simply breathes. In, out. A simple command to mimic the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. Wyatt’s hand touches my back, stroking absentmindedly.

I don’t care for Sharon, but to see and hear a life taken right in front of me is jarring.

The balcony door is pushed open, the shadow of the tall man stepping through. He stops in his tracks at the sight of us. Wyatt’s hand on my back tightens, and my blood runs cold. That distant memory I couldn’t unlock in the ballroom slams into me. A tailored suit, dark brown with a crisp white shirt. He’s older, his hair more salt than pepper, and there’s a stiffness to the way he holds himself. A rigidness and a sneer I’ve rarely seen.

For a moment, there’s only stunned silence. It's not Fredrick. Not my real father, but my adoptive one.

“Nixon?”