Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
Charlotte
I know I should move. Run, probably.
But my feet are rooted to the floor. Right where Theo left me as he strode toward Scar.
I’ve never seen him like this before. His frame coiled tight, muscles cording at his neck.
He looks dangerous—bloodthirsty.
I can feel Mistress tugging at my torn hoodie. Wrapping a hand around my elbow. But I don’t want to leave.
I flinch when he slams his head into Scar’s face. There’s a sickening crack that echoes when Theo goes in again. And again.
Through the chaos, he finally looks at me. Relief flickers—brief and fragile—but it vanishes just as quickly. His eyes darken with something heavier.
Another tug at my arm makes my stomach twist. Mistress is saying something—her voice urgent, insistent—but I don’t hear it.
My eyes are locked on Theo’s ravaged face.
Go.
That’s what he mouthed, wasn’t it?
Hesitantly, painfully, I give in to the impossible choice and move.
Each step feels wrong. Heavy. But I don’t turn away from him. Not until the fight disappears behind the door we push through.
Then we’re running.
My breath tears out of me in ragged pulls, my lungs burning as I try to keep up.
“I need you to keep up,” she pants. “I’ll leave you at the west exit if your club is there and go back.”
I nod, but she can’t see me. Her focus zeroed in on navigating this labyrinth of a place.
We climb another flight of stairs and I flinch when screams echo from the floors above.
“Those are coming from the dorms,” she says, almost casually. “Used to be the general ward.”
“There are more people here?” My voice cracks under the weight of it. The disbelief. The horror clawing its way up my throat.
She huffs, picking up her pace. “The cells are where they bring the “new goods”,” she says, making air quotes. “You’re in the cells—means you get at least a week of them breaking you.”
My chest tightens.
“Then they move you upstairs. For the real clients. Cleaner rooms. Fresh clothes…” She shrugs. “Y’know. Presentable. Then depending on your tag—mutt, princess—”
A sharp gasp escapes me at her crude, stomach-churning explanation. When she glances back at my paling face, she winces—quieting down. Her face slightly contrite.
I blink rapidly, but the tears still come. They just don’t stop. My body doesn’t care that I should’ve run out by now.
We push through another set of doors and suddenly the space opens up.
A massive hall stretches out before us.
An abandoned reception area. Wide. Hollow. The kind of place that once held chaos—patients, doctors, urgency—but now it just echoes.
Dust clings to broken counters. Chairs lie overturned. A flickering light hums somewhere above us.
No screams. No cries.
Just silence.
Click.
The sharp sound of heels striking the floor behind us.
My entire body locks.
“I don’t think Hellfire would approve of this, Mistress.”
That voice. Smooth. Sweet. Poison.
My stomach drops as we turn.
Glory stands a few feet away, posture straight, a smirk curling her lips. A gun rests steady in her hand, aimed directly at us.
At Mistress.
She doesn’t lower it as she starts walking forward. Slow. Confident. Like she’s already won.
Beside me, Mistress lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “God,” she mutters, rubbing her temple. “You again.”
Glory’s smile sharpens. “Missed me?”
“Not particularly,” she drawls. “Here to do your boss’s bidding?”
Glory huffs. “You always did think too highly of yourself.”
“And you never think—at all,” Mistress shoots back easily.
There’s something different in her tone now. Sharper. Personal.
Glory’s eyes flicker, irritation bleeding through. “I’ve got the gun, bitch. You’re not in a position to be running that mouth.”
Mistress tilts her head, unimpressed. “And you think you are?”
Glory’s smirk widens, delusion gleaming in her eyes. “I don’t think. I know. Hellfire trusts me. So you’re going to quietly walk Charlie back to the cells. Now.”
Something ugly twists in my stomach. But Mistress barks out a laugh. An actual cackle.
“Trusts you?” she echoes, incredulous. “Sweetheart, you barely register as more than a hole to him.”
My breath catches as Glory’s face changes. Subtly at first—then all at once.
Her lips pull back, eyes flashing. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
“Oh?” Mistress steps slightly forward, her voice dropping into something quieter. Crueler. “Did he not tell you that part? Or you’re just that dense?”
My gaze flickers—and that’s when I see the gun tucked at the back of her jeans.
My pulse spikes. She must’ve grabbed it earlier when Scar intercepted us. During the chaos.
She continues, relentless. “Do you not know they all laugh at you behind your back?” she murmurs. “You’re not special to Hellfire, Glory.”
Mistress almost spits out her name like it’s something vile. And I agree—it is.
Glory’s fingers tighten on the gun.
“You’ve fucked half his men,” Mistress goes on, almost bored now. “How do you think you got your name?”
A beat.
“Because you’re a gloryhole for everybody.”
The word lands like a slap.
Glory snaps. “You fucking bitch—” Her composure shatters completely. Rage distorts her features, turning her sharp. Ugly. Pathetic. “You think you’re better than me, you whoring mutt?” she spits, voice climbing. “You think you mean anything? To anybody?!”
Mistress doesn’t even flinch. That seems to make it worse.
Glory laughs—high, unhinged. “At least I was wanted,” she sneers. “At least I wasn’t forgotten.”
Mistress’s jaw tightens slightly. It’s the first crack I’ve seen.
Glory sees it too, and she pounces.
“Oh, what?” She tilts her head mockingly. “Did that hit a nerve?”
Silence.
“Or are you just upset, Leila,” Glory continues, voice dripping venom, “that I was the one warming Wolf’s bed for years?”
The words hit like a gunshot, and everything inside me stops.
That name clicks into place and my stomach drops.
She’s Leila. Wolf’s Leila.
My eyes snap to her.
Oh God. She’s alive.
Everything happens too fast.
One second, Mistress—no, Leila—is standing beside me. The next, she’s charging.
Glory’s smug expression fractures into pure panic as she fumbles with her gun, fingers scrambling—desperate.
“Safety’s on, you stupid bitch,” Leila grits out and her fist connects with Glory’s mouth with a sickening crack.
Glory staggers back, the gun slipping from her grasp as it clatters across the floor. Her face twists, feral and furious, as she lunges.
Leila doesn’t hesitate. She meets her head-on.
She moves like she’s been waiting for this a long time—precise, brutal. Her fist slams into Glory’s ribs once. Twice.
A sharp, wet crack echoes.
Glory wheezes, her body folding, but she claws back—grabbing at Leila’s hair, nails scraping skin, landing wild, sloppy hits that barely connect.
Leila takes them like they’re nothing. Then drives her knee straight into Glory’s stomach. Air leaves her in a broken gasp.
Another hit. Another crack.
By the time it’s over, Glory is barely standing.
Leila grips her by the hair, yanking her down, forcing her onto her knees. Right in front of her.
Glory sways, blood dripping from her split lip, her breaths shallow and uneven.
Leila smirks down at her. Cold and cruel. “This must be a very comfortable position for you, huh, Susanne?”
Glory lets out a weak, guttural laugh, her head lolling slightly. “W-Wolf is v-very familiar w-with looking at m-me like this.” Her pathetic words slur together. Then she laughs again, but it breaks into a cough. Blood spills from her mouth.
Leila tilts her head, something dark flickering in her eyes. “Is he now?” she murmurs, voice dipping lower. “I’m guessing, then he’d usually keep your mouth shut.”
My heart slams against my ribs. Because I see the shift. The moment something inside Leila snaps.
Her hand moves to the back of her jeans and she pulls out her gun. Before I can even breathe, she shoves it into Glory’s mouth. Hard. “Oh Susie,” Leila whispers, almost gently, “now that must be very familiar.”
Glory’s eyes go wide. Fear floods them—real and raw.
She gurgles around the barrel, shaking her head frantically, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Leila isn’t even looking at her anymore. Her gaze is distant. Empty with a cold, violent haze.
Like Glory isn’t even a person. Just… a thing. A target. A memory.
Crack!
The sound explodes through the hall. I flinch violently.
Glory’s body jerks—then stills. Her eyes go glassy before red floods them. Then she drops sideways. Lifeless.
Silence crashes down around us.
For a moment, Leila doesn’t move. She just stands there. Gun still raised. Breathing steady.
Then, slowly, she crouches. Wipes the barrel of her gun against Glory’s shirt.
My entire body trembles, rooted in place. But the fear clawing through me is not for her.
Leila straightens, turning toward me. Her gaze shaky yet still detached. Then it flicks past me and her chin lifts slightly. “Your brother’s here.”
My breath catches and I stumble back. My heart racing as I turn. And there he is. Standing at the entrance.
Wolf’s face is pale—drained of everything. His eyes locked on Leila like he’s seeing a ghost.
His hand hangs limp at his side, a gun loosely gripped in his fingers.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. His eyes flicker—unsteady, like he might collapse at any second.
I glance back at Leila.
She’s already moving, her back to us. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even spare him a glance. A blink and she’s gone. Disappearing into a hallway we didn’t come from.
I walk over to Wolf with careful, measured steps, hoping to pull him out of whatever stunned haze he’s trapped in.
The moment I stop in front of him, something in him snaps loose.
His gaze drops to mine—and everything inside him breaks open.
He pulls me into his arms, crushing me against him in a desperate, bone-deep embrace. “God, Charlotte,” he breathes, his voice thick with disbelief and something dangerously close to relief.