Chapter 11
Ry
I hold my phone up, my grin turning feral. "Rev's got someone who knows something."
Hudson's eyes darken as he reads the message. "Let's go."
I practically bounce on my toes as we head back to the bike, adrenaline pushing back the exhaustion that's been clawing at me.
My limbs feel weightless, almost disconnected, like I'm floating rather than walking.
The world around me seems to blur at the edges, colors too bright, sounds too sharp.
I know this feeling—this manic energy that comes when I've pushed my body far past its limits—but I embrace it.
Sleep is for the weak. I can rest when whoever's responsible is bleeding out at my feet.
After putting on our helmets Hudson swings his leg over Rev's motorcycle, the leather seat creaking beneath his weight.
I slide on behind him, my body fitting against his like we've done this a thousand times.
His back is a wall of muscle against my chest, solid and unyielding.
I wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the heat of him even through his jacket.
"Hold tight," he warns, revving the engine.
We tear out of the docks, the wind whipping at my clothes as Hudson navigates through the labyrinthine pathways. Once we hit the main road, he opens up the throttle, and the bike surges forward with a roar that vibrates through my entire body.
The city becomes a blur of light and shadow as we weave through traffic. My heart pounds in rhythm with the engine, and I find myself pressing closer to Hudson's back, seeking his warmth. His body is like a furnace, radiating heat that seeps into my bones, chasing away the chill of fatigue.
Hudson takes a corner sharply, and I instinctively tighten my thighs around the bike, around him.
The friction sends a jolt of heat straight to my core, and I bite my lip to suppress a gasp.
The combination of his body against mine, the powerful machine between my legs, and the danger coursing through my veins is intoxicating.
Another sharp turn, another squeeze of my thighs, and I feel my body responding in ways that are entirely inappropriate for the situation.
Each vibration of the engine thrums through me, settling low in my belly, between my legs.
I shift slightly, trying to alleviate the pressure, but it only makes things worse.
Hudson's muscles flex beneath my hands as he maneuvers the bike through a particularly tight gap between cars. The display of control, of power, sends another wave of heat through me. I can't help but remember those same hands on my throat, on my skin, demanding and precise.
Not the time, Ry. Not the fucking time.
But my exhausted brain isn't listening to reason. My body has its own agenda, responding to the proximity, the danger, the thrill of the hunt ahead. I press my cheek against his back, inhaling his scent.
Hudson accelerates suddenly, the bike surging forward with unexpected force. The burst of speed hits me like a drug, and a wild laugh escapes me, high and unrestrained. I throw my head back, cackling into the wind as buildings fly past us.
The helmet's comm crackles to life. "You're insane," Hudson's voice comes through, intimate in my ear despite the roar of the engine. There's a smile in his voice that sends heat down my spine.
"Faster!" I demand through my own mic, squeezing his waist until my fingers dig into the leather of his jacket.
He obliges, pushing the bike to its limits as we race through the streets toward the Devil's Lair. The world becomes nothing but streaks of color and sound, my laughter mingling with the scream of the engine.
By the time we pull into the parking garage beneath the club, my body is humming. Hudson kills the engine, and the sudden silence rings in my ears. For a moment, neither of us moves. I'm still pressed against him, my arms around his waist, my breath coming in short gasps.
Slowly, reluctantly, I slide off the bike. My legs feel unsteady beneath me—from the ride or from something else, I'm not sure. Hudson dismounts with fluid grace, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his hair.
"You good?" he asks, eyes tracking my face.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The exhaustion I've been fighting hits me again, a wave of dizziness that I push back through sheer force of will. I refuse to be weak. Not now. Not when we're so close to answers.
Hudson leads me through the dimly lit garage, toward a nondescript door at the far end. Anyone else would walk right past it, assuming it's a maintenance closet or electrical room. But we know better.
He punches a code into the keypad beside the door, and it slides open silently. The hallway beyond is grey, polished concrete. My boots echo against the floor as we make our way deeper into what we jokingly refer to as our "special conference room."
Who doesn't have a secret torture room in their building, right?
At the end of the hall is another door, heavier than the first. Hudson presses his palm against a scanner, and after a brief pause, the door unlocks with a metallic click.
The room beyond is spacious and meticulously clean. The walls are soundproofed, the floor sealed concrete for easy cleanup. Various implements hang from hooks along one wall—tools designed for one purpose only: to extract information from unwilling subjects.
Rev and Kai are already there, standing close together, speaking in hushed tones. They look up as we enter, their identical faces breaking into predatory smiles that mirror my own.
"About time," Rev drawls, pushing away from the wall he was leaning against. "We were starting to think you got lost."
"Or distracted," Kai adds, his eyes flickering between Hudson and me with knowing amusement.
I ignore the implication, my attention already fixed on the room's other occupant.
A man sits bound to a metal chair in the center of the room, his head hanging forward limply.
Blood matts his hair, trickles from his nose, stains the collar of his shirt.
But he's conscious—I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his shoulders.
"Who is he?" I ask, approaching slowly, circling him like a shark scenting blood.
"Name's Marcus, or at least that’s what he told us," Rev says, following my movement with his eyes. "One of the new bartenders working last night. Cam caught him trying to slip something into a bottle behind the bar after the overdoses started."
I stop in front of the man, bending slightly to look into his face. He raises his head, and our eyes meet. His are bloodshot, one swollen nearly shut. A split lip, bruises forming along his jaw. He's been roughed up, but not broken. Not even close to what I have in mind.
"He hasn't been very forthcoming," Kai continues, voice deceptively casual. "We thought maybe you'd have better luck, gorgeous."
My lips curve into a smile that makes the man flinch. "Awwwwww. Did you save him for me?" I ask, not taking my eyes off our prisoner.
"Consider it a gift, baby girl," Rev says, stepping closer. "We know how much you enjoy this part."
I feel a rush of affection for the twins, for how well they know me, how perfectly they understand what I need right now.
After too many sleepless hours, after watching our empire being attacked from all sides, after feeling helpless and reactive instead of in control—this is exactly what I need.
Someone to make bleed. Someone to make pay.
"You shouldn't have," I murmur, reaching out to touch Marcus's bruised face with mock tenderness.
He tries to jerk away, but there's nowhere to go. His eyes dart frantically between the four of us, wide with terror. "I already told them everything I know," he rasps, voice cracking. "I was just following orders. I didn't know people would die—"
My hand moves faster than thought, the crack of my palm against his cheek echoing in the room. His head snaps to the side, a fresh trickle of blood spilling from his reopened lip.
"I didn't say you could speak," I say softly, dangerously.
I turn to the wall of tools, considering my options. Each one promises a different kind of pain, a different path to the truth. My fingers hover over the selection, caressing handles, testing edges. Behind me, I hear the man's breathing quicken, panic setting in as he realizes what's coming.
"Who gave you the drugs?" I ask without turning around. "Who told you to poison my customers?"
"I-I don't know his name," Marcus stammers. "He approached me outside the club a few nights ago. Offered me money to slip something into the drinks when he gave the signal."
I select a thin-bladed knife, testing its weight in my hand. "Not good enough, Marcus. I need a name. A face. Something I can use."
"I swear, I never got a name! He wore a hood, kept his face hidden. All I know is he had this accent, like he was from way outside of the city."
I turn back to him, knife glinting in the harsh light. "That's still not good enough."
I take a step toward Marcus, twirling the knife between my fingers.
The blade catches the light, sending little rainbows dancing across his terrified face.
I'm so tired that the colors seem to leave trails in the air, like shooting stars streaking across the night sky. Beautiful. I giggle at the thought.
"An accent," I repeat, tapping the flat of the blade against my lips. "That's what you're giving me? An accent?" I lean in close enough that my breath stirs the hair matted with blood against his forehead. "Do better, Marcus."
His eyes dart frantically between me and the twins standing behind me. "I swear! He kept his face covered! All I know is he paid in cash—old bills, like they'd been stored somewhere for years. And he knew things about the club, about the security. Said he used to work here, back before—"
Hudson's phone rings, cutting through Marcus's babbling. He steps away to answer it, but I can still hear his sharp intake of breath, the low curse that follows.
"When?" he demands, his voice tight with controlled fury. "How bad?"
I turn, knife still in hand, watching as Hudson's face darkens. The room suddenly feels too small, too hot, the walls pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
"I'll be there in fifteen," he says finally, ending the call. His eyes meet mine, and I know before he speaks that it's bad.
"The coffee shop on Seventh," he says, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking. "Someone set it on fire. It's still burning."
The coffee shop. Another one of my first legitimate businesses. One of the first truly good places I created in this dead city to bring it to life again.
"I'm coming with you," I say immediately, already moving toward the door.
Rev's hand clamps around my arm, yanking me back with enough force that I stumble. "No, you're not."
"Let go of me," I snarl, trying to wrench my arm free. The room tilts slightly, exhaustion making my movements clumsy. "That's my fucking coffee shop!"
"And this," Rev says, shoving me roughly toward Marcus, "is our only lead. Hudson can handle the fire. You're staying here."
I whirl on him, knife still gripped in my white-knuckled fist. "You don't give me orders, Rev."
His eyes flash dangerously, but instead of backing down, he steps closer, towering over me as his voice drops low. "Tonight I do, little bit. You haven't slept in days. You're running on fumes and rage, which makes you sloppy. And we can't afford sloppy right now."
Hudson is already moving toward the door, phone to his ear as he barks orders to his security team. I take a step to follow, but Kai blocks my path this time, immovable as a mountain.
"Get out of my way," I hiss.
"No," he says simply. "You're staying here. With us." He nods toward Marcus, who's watching our exchange with growing terror. "Finish what you started."
Hudson pauses at the door, his eyes finding mine across the room. Something passes between us—concern, understanding, maybe even longing. Then he's gone, the door closing with a final-sounding click.