Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Bryan
T he hotel room door swings shut behind me with a dull thud , the weight of exhaustion settling deep in my bones. The place is nice enough—clean, modern, with a view of Liverpool that might actually be worth something if I gave a damn.
But right now, all I care about is the takeaway bag in my hand and the promise of a hot shower before I crash for the night.
My muscles ache from being on a leash all day.
If I were home, I could’ve been moving from place to place on my Harley. I would’ve been wearing jeans and my cut and my muscles would burn from too many hours in the saddle.
Instead, I’m dressed like a fucking businessman, being chauffeured around like I’m respectable or some shit. I’m representing the Quinn clan in Watson territory and the tedium of not finding Siobhan has built inside me over the past twelve hours until I’m a fucking time bomb about to go off and take out half a city block.
Kieran drops onto the armchair near the window, running a hand through his russet hair with a sigh. “Today was a bloody waste of time.”
“No shit.” I toss the bag of fish and chips onto the small table, scrubbing a hand over my jaw where the stubble is starting to itch. “We spent the whole goddamn day chasing ghosts, and are no closer to finding her than we were this morning.”
“She’s not a ghost.” Kieran’s voice is level, but there’s an edge to it. “She’s out there. And the people protecting her know she’ll be hunted. It was na?ve to think this would be easy.”
I exhale hard through my nose, shaking my head as I shrug off my suit jacket and drape it over the back of a chair. “Aye, well, there’s the rub. The longer we’re poking around asking questions, the sooner her rat squad will learn we’re gunning for her. Which means this could take longer than we thought.”
Kieran leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. His boots leave dirt marks on the carpet that housekeeping will be pissed about tomorrow. “We tracked her this far and I’ve got feelers out. We’ll have better luck tomorrow.”
I grunt, not convinced in the slightest, but too damn tired to argue. Instead, I reach for the takeaway bag, tear it open, and pass him a grease-stained box before grabbing my own.
The smell of battered fish and salt-drenched chips fills the room, and for the first time today, something feels remotely right. The familiar comfort of greasy pub food almost makes up for the shit day we’ve had.
We eat in silence, the only sounds the crinkle of paper and the quiet hum of city traffic outside. By the time I’ve wiped my fingers clean on one of the thin paper napkins, my limbs feel twice as heavy, my body screaming for sleep like I’ve just gone ten rounds in the cage.
Kieran stands, stretching with a groan before nodding toward the bathroom. His joints pop loud enough to hear and I realize I’m not the only one feeling it tonight. “I’m showering first. Try not to pass out before I’m done.”
I flip him off, grabbing my phone from the table and checking for any updates from back home. Nothing. With a sigh, I lean back against the headboard, rolling my shoulders as I stare at the ceiling, studying the pattern running along the crown molding.
The sound of the shower running drowns out the quiet for a while, and when Kieran emerges, towel-drying his hair and leaving wet footprints on the carpet, I push up from the bed, ready to take my turn.
I grab my duffle, but before I make it to the washroom, there’s a security beep and our door swings open.
Logan.
I frown as he steps inside with a black bag hanging at his side. “Why are you back here? And what’s in that? There are two beds and neither of us are into you.”
He flashes me a shit-eating grin, locks the door behind him without a word, and strides toward the window. Lifting a key ring, he unlocks the adjoining door, and pulls it open. When he opens the door to the next room, he turns back to us, smirking. “See you in the morning, roomies.”
I curse, my jaw clenching. “Seriously? Do the Watsons think us incapable of sleeping without getting into trouble?”
Logan shrugs. “You know the saying, mine is not to reason why; mine is but to do or die. And just so we’re clear—I have no intention of dying.”
Aye, I suppose that’s true. Now that we’re in Liverpool, we’re with a Watson envoy in Mason territory. Things will get complicated fast if things go south. The last thing anyone needs is an international incident between three crime families.
“Fine. Have at it. And just so you know, Kieran snores like a fucking buzzsaw.”
Logan chuckles, the sound rough and knowing. “Yeah, well, so do I.”
I stare after him as he disappears into the next room, then glare at Kieran sprawled out on his bed scrolling through his phone.
“What the fuck did I do?” Kieran scowls.
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face, tension taking root behind my eyes. “Nothing. Not a fucking thing.”
With one last glance at the open adjoining door, I take my duffle and head for the shower. If Logan wants to play watchdog, he can knock himself out.
Right now, I need to wash off the day and get some damn sleep. Tomorrow is going to be another long one. I feel it in my fucking bones.
* * *
Harper
The entire night feels like an elaborate game, and I can’t tell if I’m a player or the one being played.
Dinner is a carefully orchestrated performance. The restaurant is dimly lit, sleek, and intimate, the kind of place where the waitstaff knows your drink order before you give it and the silverware costs more than most people’s rent.
The soft clink of crystal and the murmur of polite conversation creates a perfect backdrop for seductive deception.
Jamie Rowan is the perfect host—charming, easygoing, never pressing too hard. His smile reaches his eyes just enough to seem genuine, and he knows exactly when to lean in or pull back.
But I know better.
Every movement is deliberate. Every glance, every casual brush of his hand against the small of my back as he guides me through doorways, is calculated. He’s cultivating intimacy and trust—at least he thinks he is.
I feel the practiced precision in his touch, the way his fingers rest just long enough to establish connection without crossing lines.
I keep my guard up, meeting his smiles with my own, answering his questions with just enough detail to seem genuine without giving him anything real. I’m waiting for him to slip... for the mask to crack enough to reveal what’s truly underneath.
But he doesn’t.
When we leave the restaurant, the streets of Liverpool are alive with the weekend crowd. People move in noisy clusters, laughter spilling into the night air, neon signs casting streaks of color across the pavement. The scent of rain lingers, though the skies have cleared.
An omen of the storm passing?
Maybe, but it doesn’t feel like it.
I expect Jamie to call for a car, but instead, he steers me down a side street, toward a building with no sign and a single bouncer out front. The man is built like a brick wall, his gaze scanning us with practiced indifference before stepping aside to allow us entry.
“Evening, Mr. Jamie.”
“Evening, Charlie.”
Inside, the bass thrums through my bones, the air of the club thick with sweat, alcohol, and something else—something electric.
The space is packed wall to wall with bodies moving in a slow, pulsing rhythm under flashing red and blue lights. The heat is immediate, cloying over my skin like a living thing.
Jamie leads me through the throng effortlessly, his hand now firmly at my waist. I watch the way people react to him. A few nods of acknowledgment. Some outright deference. The crowd parts for him without hesitation, like schools of fish acknowledging the shark in their waters.
And then there is the way people look at me .
I feel their gazes lingering and it makes my skin crawl. Men are openly sizing me up, whispering behind half-full glasses of expensive booze in cut crystal.
Two men near the bar exchange glances before turning their attention to me fully, like I’m suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. Their gazes grope my body with the kind of clinical assessment that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with transaction.
Jamie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
I keep my expression neutral, but my pulse kicks up. This is exactly what I’ve been working toward, but there’s something about being observed like this, physically appraised, that makes me itch for an exit.
Jamie leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Let’s grab a drink.”
I nod, schooling my features into something composed. I can play this game, too. As we sidle up toward the bar, I scan the room, casually noting possible escape routes. If this goes badly, will they try to stop me?
The bartender doesn’t ask for our order. A glass of amber liquid appears in front of Jamie, and a sleek-stemmed cocktail is placed in front of me. The liquid inside my glass is pale pink, smells sweetly fruity, and is garnished with a twist of orange.
I stare at it.
“You don’t like gin?” Jamie asks, watching me over the rim of his glass. His smile is relaxed but his gaze is calculating beneath the veneer of casual interest.
“I don’t like drinking something I didn’t order.”
He chuckles, unfazed. “Smart.” He lifts my glass in a silent toast before taking a sip. When he swallows, he sets it back down in front of me. “But sometimes, Harper, you have to trust the experience.”
“Trust is earned,” I counter smoothly, holding his gaze. The club lights catch in his eyes, making them flash with something I can’t quite read.
His smirk deepens, and for the first time tonight, I see a flicker of something else in his eyes. Something darker. And just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone, replaced by that practiced charm he’s been showing me all night.
I stir the drink with my index finger and casually glance at my painted nail. My Undercover Color nail polish will detect common date rape drugs likeRohypnol, Xanax, andGHB. The color doesn’t change, but that doesn’t mean much—there are plenty of substances beyond its detection range.
He did take a sip to ease my suspicions...
But he could have easily taken an antidote if my drink is actually laced with something.
“Harper? Everything all right?”
Jamie is staring at me, watching, waiting. Right, because this is why I’m here. This is the moment that tests my commitment to finding out what happened to Macie and Chantal…to Zhara and who knows how many other girls who have fallen prey to the men in this city.
I lift the rim of the glass to my lips and tip it back, taking an unguarded drink. He needs to think he has me on the hook or this won’t work. The gin is top shelf, the mix perfectly balanced.
When nothing starts to spin or get weird by the time I’m swallowing the last of my drink, I figure it was a test. And thankfully, I passed.
We don’t stay long after that. Jamie downs his drink in one slow swallow, then takes my hand—not forcefully, but with enough control to make it clear I’m supposed to follow. His fingers are cool against mine, his grip light but unmistakably proprietary.
The club spills out into another alley, quieter than the first. My boots click against the damp pavement as we weave through a maze of backstreets until Jamie stops in front of a solid wooden door, its only marker a brass knocker in the shape of a fox’s head. The detail is intricate, the antique-looking metal polished to a soft gleam.
He raps twice. A panel slides open, revealing a pair of sharp, dark brown eyes. A beat later, the door swings inward, and we step through.
The speakeasy is nothing like the club.
The air is thick with cigar smoke and low laughter. The scent of expensive whiskey mingles with leather and polished wood. It’s smaller, more intimate, the kind of place where power moves in whispers instead of shouts. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over everything, softening edges but hiding nothing.
This crowd is older, men in crisp suits and women draped in velvet and diamonds. No flashing lights, no pounding music—just the quiet hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of ice against glass. Money hangs in the air around us, as tangible as the exotic smoke of imported cigars.
Jamie’s grip on my wrist is gone, but the weight of his presence lingers. He guides me through the room with a casual confidence, acknowledging people with a nod or a murmured greeting. I catch fragments of names, titles, and the occasional comment that sounds more like innuendo.
And again, the lingering gazes.
Men glance at me, some subtle, others not. One near the bar lets his gaze drag over me, slow and deliberate, before he leans to whisper something to the man beside him. They both chuckle, but don’t look away.
The weight of their assessment skims over my flesh like a physical touch and I fight not to recoil. I lift my chin, holding their stares until they break it first. I’ve faced down worse than middle-aged men with too much money and too little respect.
Jamie leads me toward a hidden staircase in the back, where another man stands watch. No words are exchanged. The guard steps aside, allowing us through, his gaze lingering on me a beat too long to be polite.
Beyond the gentleman’s lounge lies a private casino.
The scent of cigars and whiskey is stronger here, mixing with the underlying clinking of clay chips being put into play. Low, green-felt tables stretch across the room, each one surrounded by men nursing crystal glasses and stacking crisp bills. The lighting in here is strategic—bright enough to see the cards, dim enough to hide expressions.
The dealers are silent, their movements practiced.
The pit bosses look like they’ve come straight out of the Godfather movie. Broad shouldered, expressionless, their gazes constantly scanning the crowd.
Jamie makes his way to a roulette table, pulling a few bills from his pocket like it’s an afterthought. He plays lightly, betting small, laughing when he loses, making casual conversation with the men around him. I stand close enough to appear engaged, but far enough to observe the room and make sure no one gets the jump on me from behind.
If Jamie’s involved in anything illegal, this is where I expect to see it. A quiet exchange, a shift in demeanor, something. I track movement around me, catalog faces, search for patterns in the chaos.
But there’s nothing.
No deals, no threats, no obvious criminal activity. Just money being thrown around like it means nothing.
Another man at the table watches me from the corner of his eye. When I meet his gaze, he smiles, but there’s nothing friendly about it. It’s the smile of a predator, patient and certain.
I roll my shoulders, pushing the unease down. “Why is everyone staring at me?” I keep my voice light, but there’s an edge to it I can’t quite hide.
Jamie flashes me a dazzling smile. “Because you’re beautiful, doll. I’d bet they can’t help themselves.” His words are smooth, practiced, and completely at odds with what I’m feeling.
I give him a tight smile, letting some of my discomfort shine through. It would seem strange if I wasn’t uncomfortable, given the ogling I’m getting.
Jamie doesn’t stay long. After losing a few rounds, he stretches, tossing the dealer a tip before turning to me. “Ready to call it a night?” His tone is casual, but there’s something in his eyes.
Is it assessment? No, it’s more like calculation.
I hesitate, scanning the room one last time, searching for something, anything that gives this place away for what it really is.
But there’s nothing.
Just men in suits, cigars curling smoke into the air, and an unshakable feeling in my gut that I’m being assessed. Like merchandise. Like prey.
“Sure. This was fun. I never realized there was so much happening behind the scenes.” I let a hint of naivety color my voice, playing into whatever role he has cast me in.
Jamie walks me out of the casino and back to the restaurant where we met up a few hours ago. The street is quieter now, only a few stragglers lingering outside, voices hushed in the late-night air. The temperature has dropped, and I suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold.
He stops near the curb, hands in his pockets. “And that’s the private tour. Did you have fun?”
I force a smile. “I did. It was… enlightening.”
Not a lie. It was enlightening—just not for the reasons he might think.
Jamie tilts his head, studying me in a way that makes my spine stiffen. “Then maybe we should do it again some time.” It’s phrased as a suggestion, but there’s something in his tone that makes it feel more like an inevitability.
“I’d love that.” The words taste like ash but I wrap myself in conviction. I need to see this through—for Macie and Chantal.
And just like that, he turns and leaves.
He strides away with the confidence of a man who gets what he wants and I’m left feeling wholly unbalanced. I don’t move right away, my mind still racing through the night, trying to find the moment I missed something.
All the interactions, the looks, the unspoken exchanges—they all pointed toward me breaking through the veil of secrecy.
I truly thought he’d make a move.
By the time I make it back to the hotel, my thoughts are tangled with frustration. Before I can lift my fist to knock on Anton’s door, it flies open.
He takes my appearance in with a single sweep of his gaze, his concern palpable, his body tense. “Are you all right?”
I roll my neck, stretching against the tension that’s built up over hours of vigilance. “I’m fine.”
“What happened? Where did he take you?”
I step inside, sigh, and sit at the desk chair. “To a very public dinner at the restaurant where I met him, then to an underground club, then to a sort of gentleman’s club speakeasy with a private casino.”
Anton sinks onto the end of his untouched bed, his expression tight. “And?”
“And nothing. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t try to get me drunk. Didn’t do anything overtly illegal or creepy.” I run a hand through my hair, loosening it from where it’s been pinned all night. “It was weird.”
Anton exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “Do you think he knew?”
I consider that and shake my head. “I don’t think so. It felt more like I was being shopped around. Everywhere we went, men were watching me, ogling me. It felt deliberate.” The memory of those stares makes my skin crawl all over again.
Anton’s gaze darkens. “Do you think it’s more of a ‘kidnap to order’ operation, rather than an out-and-out sex trafficking ring?”
“I don’t know, maybe. Or maybe I did something to scare him off and he decided I wasn’t a good fit.” I rub at the back of my neck but it does nothing to work out the knots of tension.
Anton drops his head back and sighs. “I hate this. I hate everything about this.”
I reach over and pat his knee. “I know you do, but I’m safe and we know more than we did yesterday.”
I try to sound reassuring, but the truth is, I understand his frustration. I wanted answers tonight, too. Instead, I got a carefully curated performance and the unshakable feeling that the real game hasn’t even started yet.
Whatever Jamie Rowan is involved in, he’s careful—too careful for a simple night out to reveal his darkest secrets. But everyone slips eventually—and when he does, I’ll be watching.