Chapter 42
FORTY-TWO
Ruin
I’ve never known fear this palpable—so thick, so suffocating that it feels like I can smell it. Clinging to my skin.
Or fuck, maybe that’s just my blood.
The moment that woman drove the needle into my neck, the only thing I could do was pray that I wake up again
As the strength drained from my body—fast, merciless—the only thing I could see was Charlotte’s face. Frozen. Terrified.
Terrified for me.
I couldn’t leave her with that. So I selfishly forced the words out. The ones I hoped wouldn’t be my last.
Thank fuck they weren’t.
If I’d died like that… if she’d had to carry that on top of everything else—God.
But the fear I felt before? It crashes back into me tenfold the moment consciousness claws its way back in.
Whispered venom hits my ears first.
“But you do have my eyes, Charlie. Glory never told me that.”
What follows is a deep, enraged growl of the woman I love.
My eyes drag open. Slow. Heavy.
The world swims before it finally sharpens into something I can understand.
Then I see him. Inside the fucking cell.
Hellfire. President of Hell’s Army.
Charlotte’s father.
Her fucking sperm donor.
He’s crouched in front of her like this is some casual conversation, fingers dragging through his overgrown beard. His gray hair is slicked back over an undercut, his whole appearance calculated chaos.
But Charlotte—she’s not the same girl who broke down a while ago.
She’s upright now with her back pressed against the bars separating the cells. Knees drawn up, both arms resting defiantly over them.
There’s no cowering. No fear on display.
Only fire.
I don’t know how long he’s been here. But I know one thing—she’s refusing to give him what he wants.
“Did Sandy never mention me?” he asks, faux-hurt lacing his tone.
Charlotte exhales sharply through her nose, nostrils flaring. No answer. Just disdain.
He clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed. “It would’ve been better if she told me I’d knocked her up,” he continues casually. “She was so desperate anyway. I’d ignored the woman all my life. And then there she was, the neglected Ol’ Lady of Savage.”
My jaw tightens.
“Hell,” he adds with a low chuckle, “I wish he hadn’t kept this from me for decades. Fuck. When Sandy tried to sell you to cover her debts, I shouldn’t have taken the trade. One look at you and I’d have known you were mine.”
Charlotte’s whole frame is shaking, but she remains silent.
“We could’ve had so much time together, my Charlotte.”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay still. Stay quiet. Don’t draw attention. Don’t give him a reason to look my way. Or give him any ammunition.
Because the second he does—I won’t be able to stop myself, and get us both killed.
Or worse.
“No?” He tilts his head, studying her like she’s some kind of experiment. “Still no words for your dear old dad?”
The word dad makes something inside me snap. But I force it shut.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaxes, voice dripping with mock warmth. “Give your old man a break. It’s a reunion, after all.” He smiles, ugly and vile. Like this whole situation is entirely amusing to him.
I watch Charlotte. Watch the way her gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t soften.
That hostile gleam in her eyes? It holds. Steady and unyielding.
Even when he leans closer invading her space, her armor doesn’t crack.
“Alright,” he says, voice gentle—almost paternal. “You’re probably not in the mood. What with all the…” His hand lifts, gesturing lazily at the surrounding cells.
Charlotte flinches. And that’s when I see it.
The glint.
Not from the thick silver rings wrapped around his fingers—but a knife.
Every instinct in me roars to life.
Fuck. I can’t intervene. There’s no point. I’m useless here. Completely, utterly powerless.
All I can do is sit here and pray that Wolf gets to us before I have to watch this turn into something I’ll never survive.
A soft vibration sounds. Without looking away, Hellfire grabs his phone from his jeans pocket.
That infuriating smile he’d been wearing, vanishes in an instant. He frowns before his face hardens at whatever he’s seeing on his screen.
“Well, then,” he murmurs, before abruptly shooting up. “Guess our time’s up.”
Cracking his neck, he gives her a once over and leaves after locking her cell again.
He doesn’t even look at me. Not even to see if I heard anything or if I’m awake.
I realize I’m really just here for the sickening ploy I’ve been reduced to.
The second the sound of his boots fade, Charlotte lets out a wet sigh. Her shoulders slumping. She drops her head into her hands and sobs quietly.
My whole body aches to touch her. To pull her in—shield her from this, even if it’s a lie I tell myself just to keep breathing through this nausea.
I can’t do any of it.
And still, I’d rather be here with her than anywhere else in this world. “I’m still here, baby” I rasp, forcing my voice to steady. “Look at me, yeah?”
Her head snaps up at my voice.
Shock. Relief. It floods her face so fast it nearly knocks the air out of me.
Like before, she crawls toward the bars. Close enough that I feel her presence like a tether keeping me from slipping under. “Theo,” she whispers.
Fuck. My name on her lips feels too right for a place like this. Too soft. Too mine.
My eyes fall shut, savoring it. I could die on that sound alone.
There’s only a fraction of warmth in her voice, but it’s there. And it’s because of me.
God. As long as she calls me Theo, I’ll take the liberty to call her baby. She hasn’t objected yet.
“I keep missing things.” I try to joke, but it comes out strained. Twisted. “I hope no one else comes and knocks me out again.”
Her face crumples instantly.
Something flickers in her eyes—something sharp and haunting. Memory of me, probably. Of when she saw me helplessly drift away.
My chest tightens.
Her gaze drifts again over me, cataloguing every bruise. Every cut. Every place I’ve been torn open.
She keeps doing that. And every time she does, something inside her breaks a little more. It’s fucking ridiculous, but I hate that I look like this.
Not because of the pain. But because it hurts her.
I force myself to push past it.
And then the questions hit. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. Don’t know what I’ve missed. And the not knowing eats at me.
“You’re not hurt, right?” My voice drops. Tightens. “You’re okay?”
She nods.
Her tears have stopped, but the strain on her face? It’s worse now. Settled deeper. Like it’s carved into her.
“Good,” I murmur, nodding slowly. “Good.”
Bang!
My entire body goes rigid. Every nerve snapping to attention.
Footsteps—fast, uneven. Something—or someone—running.
I lean forward as much as the chains allow, trying to catch sight of what’s coming.
And then I see the woman from earlier.
She’s different now, wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
She has a bolt cutter in one hand and a fucking syringe clenched in the other.
Is she going to knock me out again?
“Oh, good—you’re awake,” she pants, tossing the syringe aside like it’s nothing. Then she moves, fast and efficient.
The bolt cutter clamps down on Charlotte’s lock. “Stay back,” she says sharply, breath coming hard.
“What the fuck?” Charlotte mutters, already shifting away from the bars.
The woman grunts.
Clang!
The lock snaps clean off.
My heart slams against my ribs.
Holy fuck. Is she helping her?
Relief crashes into me so hard it almost makes me dizzy.
It doesn’t last, because the sound echoes a little too loud. Cracking the terrifying silence.
Suddenly every head in this place turns toward us.
Murmurs ripple through the cells. Then coherent voices.
Men shouting.
Women begging.
“Oh God!”
“Help us!”
“Please!”
Desperation rises like a wave—loud, chaotic, clawing at the walls.
The woman ignores it all. Her focus is entirely on Charlotte.
The moment the cell door creaks open, Charlotte doesn’t hesitate. She surges forward, straight to me.
My heart slams against my ribs as she crosses the threshold.
Finally. She’s close enough to touch.
She drops between my spread legs, her hands hovering for a split second like she’s afraid I’ll break under her.
God. Her face is so heartbreakingly beautiful even now. Relief shining through layers of fear and pain that shouldn’t belong on her.
I nod once.
Her hands come up, cupping my face. Sliding down my neck, my chest—so fucking careful—before she wraps her arms around me.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, pressing my lips to her damp cheek. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”
She clings to me. Warm and shaking.
I can’t even hold her. The frustration burns through me just as sharply as the relief.
Then I barely register the bolt cutter lining up before my arms drop like dead weight.
The sound echoes, manacles slamming against stone. My wrists are still locked in the rusted metal, but no longer bound above me.
Charlotte doesn’t even flinch. She just holds on.
A strangled groan rips out of me as fire tears through my arms. Blinding pain. Needles. Thousands of them. Burning under my skin, stabbing into muscle, into bone.
It’s like my limbs don’t belong to me. Like they’ve been replaced with molten iron and shattered glass.
I can’t breathe. My chest heaves, air scraping in like it’s too thin—too sharp.
My arms—fuck—they’re heavy, like a thousand bricks tied to dead nerves. Like someone’s driven red-hot rods straight through them.
“Ah fuck.” My jaw locks, teeth grinding as my vision blurs.
Charlotte pulls back, trying to look at me, but I can’t see her. Can’t focus. Everything is drowning in white-hot agony.
Her forehead presses against mine.
Grounding. Steady, but not enough.
Her hands move quickly, tugging at the hem of my cut. She folds it and brings it up to my mouth. “Bite,” she whispers.
I clamp down hard, teeth sinking into the leather as another wave of pulsing pain crashes through me. A broken sound vibrates in my throat, muffled, raw.
Behind her, the woman moves fast.