Chapter 3
Damon
Hunter’s truck carries the faint scent of smoke and new leather on the reupholstered seats.
Arianette got in before me, squeezed into the middle.
Her outfit isn’t much–jeans, black Forsyth hoodie, hands shoved into the front pocket–but my body doesn’t care.
It remembers. It remembers her skin, the sounds she made when I finally got my hands on her.
I shouldn’t be thinking about it, not now, not ever.
But the second she looks up–quiet, dark eyes flicking toward me–my pulse, and cock, betray me.
I climb in, slamming the door harder than I need to. The window’s cracked, wind sneaking through the gap, cold enough to sting. There’s a folded-up map on the dash, edges worn soft from use. GPS won’t help with where we’re going–you can’t track a ghost with a satellite.
She opens her mouth like she’s going to ask something, but I cut her off. “We’re taking a little field trip. See if anything rings a bell in that fucked-up little head of yours.”
“I know.” She glances at Hunter, then back at the windshield like she’s bracing for a crash.
Maybe that would be the best for all of us.
Graves’ instructions were clear. Find some information, a clue, a memory–anything to move this case along. Otherwise? We’re all expendable.
Hunter cranks the engine, and we drive off the property.
At the main road, he turns away from town, deeper into the forest, the world turning damp and dark.
The road narrows to a single lane of cracked asphalt, hemmed in by moss and trees that claw at the sides of the truck.
The deeper we go, the quieter it gets, until the only thing I hear is Arianette’s soft breathing and Hunter’s ring tapping on the steering wheel.
By the time we stop, the bridge looms ahead like a ribcage of old concrete.
A thin creek gurgles underneath, murky and slow.
Someone’s tagged the pillars in neon spray paint–names, hearts, a crude drawing of an LDZ skull.
An old couch slumps in the dirt nearby, guts spilling from a ripped seam.
Burnt logs mark the bones of a long dead bonfire.
No one’s here now. Not the kind of spot the homeless use–too exposed, too haunted.
This is a place for kids. The kind of kids who want to flirt with danger, not live in it.
I know because I’ve been here before. Back when I was between stints in juvie and thought getting high by the water made me free.
I was so fucking dumb and clueless.
“Why are we here?” Arianette’s voice cuts through the air. “This isn’t where they found me.”
She looks around like the trees might swallow her, eyes wide as she takes a deep breath. It’s the first time she’s been out of her cage since the King locked her up. She’s overwhelmed.
“Because this is where they found the girl from West End,” Hunter says. “Laura.” He pulls a folded police report from the visor and points across the creek bank, on the other side of the tunnel, near the tree line. “Right there.”
Arianette’s brow furrows. “Was she found like me? In the river?”
I shake my head. “No. Laura didn’t escape. She was left.”
“Left?”
Fucking hell. I can’t ever tell if the Baroness is dumb, clueless, or just lost in her mind.
“She was fucking dumped.”
“Oh.”
Hunter unfolds another sheet–a photo this time. The girl’s nude body is slumped against a tree, head tilted to the side, hair half-covering her face. She almost looks like she’s sleeping. Almost.
Arianette leans forward. “Can I see?”
Hunter hesitates, probably worried it’ll trigger some kind of mental break, but he hands it over. She stares at it for a long time, too long. Her throat bobs once, and she presses her lips together like she’s swallowing something down.
“She was pretty.”
I grunt, but yeah, she was. A DKS cutslut, but more importantly, she was dating the guy locked up for her murder. Ballsack. Poor fucking kid.
“Wait. What is that?”
“What’s what?” I take the photo back, squinting. Just looks like dirt and brush and the edge of something evil. “I don’t see anything.”
“Those sticks,” she says, pointing. “They’re arranged. Look–right there, by her leg.”
Hunter grabs the paper and angles the picture, eyes narrowing.
His brain’s always working–gears and circuits, never emotions.
The way he explained it, it’s like he’s programmed to see patterns and recognize pieces of a puzzle that fit together.
Is that why the King chose him? To solve this puzzle?
“You think that’s something? It kind of looks like a shape, but probably just the way they fell. ”
I lean over, squinting. It’s nothing but a scatter of twigs near the girl’s legs. But when she outlines it again with her finger, I see what she’s talking about–four branches making a rough diamond, one snapped clean in half like someone had pressed it there on purpose.
It’s not neat. It’s not art. It’s just… could it be deliberate?
“Looks like a couple of stoned kids killing time,” I mutter. “People leave weirder shit in the woods. Or, it could be just a coincidence. Sticks fall and break.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Her gaze stays fixed on the symbol, lips parting just slightly, like she’s listening to something we can’t hear.
Hunter glances between us, the picture, the empty woods beyond. The wind moves through the trees, and a few dry leaves skitter over the bridge. We get out of the truck, Arianette following out the passenger side. Her arms wrap around her body and she softly says, “Nothing out here is an accident.”
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, biting back the chill that runs down my spine. “Yeah,” I say, mostly to convince myself. “Whatever the hell that means.”
Arianette drifts toward the creek, staying within sight, but far enough that I can breathe without her scent clawing through me. Hunter’s boots scrape the gravel as he shifts beside me.
“You good, man?” he asks.
“Fine.”
He gives me that look–half disbelief, half concern. “You’re being pretty short with her. She’s just doing what we asked her to.” He nods toward the photo still in his hand. “Could be a real clue.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, jaw tightening. “Some kind of pagan symbol that leads right back to the Barons. That’s not going to help anyone.”
Hunter exhales through his nose. “Bro, I know you’re stressed, but it could be helpful. It’s not like we’ve got anything else to go on.”
I bark a laugh that doesn’t sound like me.
“Stressed? I’m more than stressed.” The words come out low and bitter.
“I’m still held together with glue and bandages from that fire.
My body aches every time I breathe. And my fucking balls–” I stop myself and drag a hand down my face.
“Doesn’t matter. The one girl I was supposed to have, the one I earned, is a goddamn psycho.
And even if I wanted to fuck her again, I wouldn’t. She doesn’t deserve my cock.”
Hunter doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, the way you watch someone teetering too close to the edge.
Now I’m pissed off all over again. The smell of smoke still lives in my nostrils, and every time I look at her, I see her standing in that house, the flames surrounding her like a demon from hell.
And here we are again, begging for scraps of her attention, trying to unscramble her broken mind.
Well, fuck it.
I stride toward her before I can stop myself. “Enough’s enough,” I snap. “Tell us what happened out here.”
Arianette’s eyes flash wide, frightened, but she doesn’t back away. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Well, you need to remember,” I say, voice rising. “What would jog your memory?”
“I’ve told you everything I know. The rest is locked up. I can’t get to it–”
“Yeah, well, maybe we’ve been doing this wrong. Maybe we’ve been too nice. Too patient.” My teeth come down on the ring in my lip, and I tug on it. “You want me to chase you through the woods again? Hunt you down and play cat and mouse? Would that work?”
She shakes her head.
“Or maybe…” I continue, glancing toward the creek, the water murky from fallen leaves.
She follows my gaze, then our eyes meet. “Damon…”
Something breaks loose inside me–a taut wire finally snapping. I reach for her, hands finding her waist. She jerks back, shoving at my chest, but I’m stronger, heavier, running on rage.
Hunter’s voice cuts through the rush in my ears. “DK–stop!”
I lift her, holding her against my body, and carry her over to the creek.
Cold water seeps into my boots, but I don't care.
I drop her in a shallow pool and throw her back, kneeling over her thrashing body.
"Maybe a little immersion therapy will bring back your fucking memory.
" Taking her by the shoulders, I push her head under the water, submerging her face.
“DK!” Hunter yells, but it’s faint under the ringing in my ears and the ash coating my throat. His hands grab at my back, doing his best to get me off of her. But fuck that. I shrug him off and push him back with a hard shove against his chest.
“What do you remember, Arianette?” I grab her again with both hands and wrench her out of the water. “Who took you? Where did they hide you? What the hell did they do to you?”
“I don’t know!” she shouts, water sputtering from her mouth.
“Yes, you do! It’s in there, you just have to stop fucking around and find it.” I dunk her under again, thumbs pressed into her collarbone. Dragging her back out, I lean in close. “Tell me. What did it smell like? Taste like? Feel like?”
She gasps for air, water lodged in her throat, and she still gives me nothing. I tighten my fingers and clench them in her soaked hoodie. I start to dunk her under again when I’m yanked back, harder this time, and tossed into the creek. Hunter steps between us. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
For a second, I don’t know. My pulse is pounding too loud to tell.
I look over at her. She’s trembling, eyes huge and glassy, the fear in them slamming through whatever fury had a hold on me.
The world snaps back into focus—the creek, the trees, the smell of cold earth. I drag a hand over my face and step away, the weight of what I almost did settling like lead in my gut.
“Stand down,” he tells me, eyeing me like he does Ares when the dog itches to run off.
The tone tracks, since I’m the one acting like an animal.
While I lick my wounds, Hunter hesitates across from me, frozen halfway between the creek and her.
She’s on her knees in the mud, hair dripping, gasping for breath.
Every instinct in him is to stay back–he’s not joking when he says he doesn’t do touch–but she’s shaking so hard it’s almost violent.
“Whatever. It’s not worth it.” I sneer, wiping my muddy hands on my jeans. “She’s not worth it.”
He curses under his breath and moves toward her anyway. “Come on,” he says, voice rough, all function, no comfort. He reaches out, stops an inch from her shoulder, then forces himself to bridge the gap. His hand closes around her arm, firm but careful, and he hauls her to her feet.
She sways, unsteady. He keeps his grip just long enough to make sure she won’t fall before he lets go, stepping back fast, like the contact burned. “Let’s get out of here,” he mutters, leading the way up the bank.
I hang back, water dripping from my clothes, every muscle locked. My pulse hasn’t slowed since I lost it. By the time we reach the truck, my hands are still shaking, though I’d rather die than admit it.
Hunter leads her to the passenger side, but says, “You’re not getting in my truck wet and muddy.” His eyes dart over to my soaked t-shirt and jeans. “Either of you. I spent too much time and money getting those seats put in. I keep a blanket for Ares that you can sit on.”
Again, the animal similarities have gone too far.
Arianette pulls off her hoodie and struggles to peel off her jeans.
Her tank top and panties cling to her like a second skin.
Jesus. Thank fuck I’m so cold, I think, peeling off my own shirt and jeans, down to my boxers.
At least the temperature keeps my hard-on in check.
My piercings draw on my nipples, and I can’t keep my eyes off the bars I gave her, hard and throbbing under the cotton.
I definitely didn’t think this through.
We toss the wet clothes in the back of the truck, and I keep my eyes off her ass as she climbs inside the cab. There’s no hiding the way she inches away when I crowd in next to her. The heat is on blast, but it does nothing to warm her up. She’s trembling again, rubbing her arms for warmth.
“Come on, Hunt, get us out of here.”
The air inside the cab is thick with silence combined with simmering rage and the low rumble of the idling engine.
Oh, and don’t forget the smell of wet dog.
Christ.
I stare out the windshield, water still running down my neck, pretending I don’t see her shaking between us. Pretending I don’t see the way Hunter grips the wheel, white-knuckled, like it’s the only thing keeping him from coming apart.
Pretending, most of all, that once again we’re not failing our house and the King, and for me, that’s not acceptable.