Chapter 2 – Adrian
The man screams again.
It’s hoarse now—shredded and pathetic.
Like his throat’s trying to give up before his body can.
I crouch in front of him, blood dripping off my knuckles, slow and steady. There’s an elegance to this one. He’s hard. Stubborn. Well-trained. Fighting hard against the metal chair I’ve bolted him to.
But he’ll talk. They always do, eventually.
I tilt my head, watching the sweat and tears streak down his filthy face.
“Still holding out?” I ask, voice calm. Too calm.
He yells something unintelligible, jerking against the restraints as if he thinks this round’s over.
It’s not.
I sigh and stand, flexing my aching fingers. My ribs throb from where he landed a lucky kick earlier. My side’s already going purple, but I barely notice it. Pain is background noise now. Has been for years.
The warehouse around us is hollow and quiet, except for the dripping faucet in the corner and the echo of breathing that’s not mine. Concrete walls. Steel doors. Rusted chains hanging from the beams. The kind of place we use when a message needs to leave a scar.
“Treat his wounds,” I mutter to Zalar as I step away from the chair, grabbing the towel he tosses me. “I need him proper for round two.”
Zalar nods and moves in. Efficient. Cold.
I wipe the blood from my hands—most of it not mine—and start rewrapping my knuckles with fresh gauze. My fingers sting, skin split in places, but I don’t stop.
I’m halfway through when I hear my phone ring.
My head snaps up.
Zalar’s already reaching into my coat pocket across the room, pulling out the secured phone we only use for family. He walks it over, silent, handing it off with a knowing look.
The number blinks on the screen.
France.
Secure line.
Only one person could be calling from there.
Lukin.
I press the phone to my ear. “I was halfway through breaking a guy’s jaw,” I mutter. “This better be worth it.”
Lukin sounds almost amused. “And here I thought your idea of fun involved more class these days.”
I grunt. “Say what you need to say, Lukin.”
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he starts talking about France. The weather. Zoe’s obsession with croissants. Their son throwing a tantrum at the Eiffel Tower.
His voice is light, conversational, like we’re just catching up.
I clench my jaw, feel the tension gather at the base of my neck. “Are you done?”
“Why? You in a hurry?”
“Yes,” I snap. “Because if you called me on a secure fucking line to talk about pastries, I’m hanging up.”
Silence.
Then a low chuckle. “You’ve gotten impatient.”
“You’ve gotten soft.”
That lands. I hear the breath Lukin lets out. “I married a woman. Had a child. That’s not soft. That’s balance.”
“No, it’s a distraction,” I grit out. “And right now, I don’t have time for either.”
Another pause. Then, finally, he speaks the name.
“Logan Cartel.”
My spine straightens.
“I know who he is,” I say, voice clipped. My knuckles twitch, curling slightly around the edge of the phone. “I know exactly who the bastard is.”
“Then you’ll be happy to hear he’s managed to do what most men can’t—steal from us. $3.7 million, through the cleaning front.”
I hiss softly. “He’s dead.”
“Already?”
“Not yet. But he will be by tonight.”
“Unless….” Lukin lets the word hang.
I grit my teeth. “Unless what?”
A pause.
Then: “Unless you want to handle the punishment. In your own way.”
My jaw flexes. My body stills. And like a trigger being pulled, a face flashes behind my eyes.
Big, watchful eyes. A round, soft face with a stubborn mouth. Curves like temptation built from heaven and sin. Hair pulled into a messy bun. The way her eyes widened that night at Zoe’s party, when she caught me watching her from across the room. Like she knew.
I stare down at my knuckles, still wrapped in bloodied gauze. My voice comes out low, careful. “What are you saying?”
Lukin chuckles. “Don’t insult me by pretending I don’t know, brat.”
My lips press into a thin line.
“I saw you that night, Adrian,” he continues smoothly. “At Zoe’s birthday. You couldn’t take your eyes off her. And ever since then? I’ve kept quiet. Even when I noticed the way her life’s been…curated.”
I say nothing.
“You think I don’t know you’ve been keeping tabs on her for a year?” Lukin’s voice is laced with amusement. “She tries to date, and suddenly, the guy disappears. Her campus security improves out of nowhere. Her rent gets mysteriously cheaper. You think that happens by coincidence?”
“I never touched her,” I say.
Lukin hums. “I know. That’s the part that makes this so interesting.”
I press a hand against the back of my neck, the tension rising.
“She’s the only blood relative that piece of shit has left,” Lukin says quietly. “And yes, Logan should die. That’s what he deserves for daring to steal from us. But if you want her—really want her—I’ll give you clearance.”
I go still.
“She becomes the exchange,” he says. “Logan lives. And she becomes yours.”
I don’t respond.
I don’t have to.
For a long time, I just…stand there.
The warehouse hums with silence. Zalar says nothing. The man in the chair is quiet now, too—unconscious or dead. I don’t care enough to check.
My mind’s a thousand miles away.
I see her in my mind’s eye. From the latest photo my men anonymously took of her.
Jennie in a sunlit courtyard on campus, her head thrown back in a laugh that hit me harder than a bullet to the chest. Her hoodie was too big, sleeves swallowing her hands as she sipped from a plastic cup. She had earbuds in, totally unaware she was being watched. Protected.
Mine.
And she had no idea.
I’d seen a hundred versions of her this past year. Jennie at the grocery store. Jennie falling asleep over her textbooks in the library. Jennie walking in the rain with her hood up, still managing to look like warmth made human.
She wasn’t meant for this world.
Too soft. Too trusting. Too kind.
And that’s exactly why I never touched her.
Because I ruin everything I touch.
Still, I never stopped watching.
Never stopped wanting.
Lukin’s voice slices through the silence, sharp now. “You want to daydream, do it later. Answer the damn question.”
I blink, jaw tightening. My fingers twitch at my side.
“I’ll handle it,” I whisper finally.
A pause on his end.
Then, “Good. Let me know what you decide.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone, staring at nothing.
The decision’s already made.
And this time…I’m not watching from afar.
This time, I’m taking her.
Yes, I’m selfish, I never claimed otherwise.
The phone is still warm in my hand when I snap. I turn—fast, hard—and attack the bastard in the metal chair, driving my fist into the man’s face.
He jerks, groans, barely conscious. Doesn’t matter.
I don’t stop.
One punch.
Then another.
Then five more.
I don’t count. I don’t think.
I just hit.
Bone cracks. Blood sprays. The sound of cartilage collapsing under my knuckles is dull and wet. His face turns to pulp beneath my fists. His skull bounces once against the metal chair, then goes limp.
Still, I punch.
Because the image of her won’t leave my head.
Because I can’t have something that pure without destroying it first.
And because now—I will have her.
Zalar clears his throat behind me. Calm. Firm.
“Boss…he’s dead.”
I stop mid-swing.
My chest heaves. My fists are soaked. My breathing sounds like thunder in the hollow of the warehouse.
The man’s head lolls to the side, jaw slack, face unrecognizable.
I let my bloodied hand fall, fingers twitching from the impact.
Staring down at the corpse, I feel nothing.
Except heat.
Except want.
I wipe my knuckles on the dead man’s shirt, then turn to Zalar.
“Start the car,” I say.
Zalar nods once and walks out.
I stand there a moment longer, heart pounding, hands dripping, jaw tight.
It’s time.
No more watching.
No more waiting.
Jennie Whitlock is mine.
And tonight—
She’ll know it.
I step into the flimsy shower stall bolted into the back wall of the warehouse, stripping off my ruined pants and what’s left of my shirt. Blood circles the drain, swirling with rust and sweat and filth. I scrub my skin until it burns.
The water is cold.
It always is.
The bruises stay.
The anger doesn’t.
When I’m clean, I walk over to the metal drawer tucked in the corner. I always keep a change of clothes here. Habit. War prep. Slacks. A fitted black shirt. A watch I don’t check. I move with slow, practiced ease, sliding each button into place like nothing just happened.
Like I didn’t just beat a man’s skull in until it split.
My hands are still raw, knuckles torn and red. But they’re clean now.
I walk past the body.
He slumps sideways, face unrecognizable. The stench of death’s already settling in.
Three of my men are standing at attention by the wall. Silent. Waiting.
“Clean this up,” I say without looking at them.
They move before the sentence finishes.
Outside, the car is already waiting. Zalar’s in the front, engine humming. Professional. Efficient. Loyal to the bone.
I slide into the back seat, lean my head against the leather headrest, and exhale.
“Take me to her.”
Zalar nods, says nothing.
He doesn’t need to ask who.
He already knows.
The car pulls away, tires crunching over gravel and silence.
I close my eyes.
And I see her again.
Soft smile. Big eyes. That faint crease between her brows when she’s thinking too hard.
She has no idea what’s coming.
No idea that the shadows she’s been feeling for months now…were me.
She’s about to find out.
Tonight, Jennie Whitlock stops being a dream.
Almost half an hour later, we pull up to her building, and my jaw tightens the second I see it. Brick chipped at the edges. Rust creeping down the stair rails. A busted porch light flickering like a dying pulse. The kind of place that breeds danger in silence and hides it in every corner.
I hate this place.
I’ve hated it since the first time I saw it. Since the first time she walked out that cracked door with her bag slung over one shoulder, smiling like the sun didn’t care where it shone.
But I know this is all she can afford. Tuition. Rent. Waitressing nights just to scrape by. It’s the only life she’s been allowed to live.
Until now.
Because all I can think about is how easily I can change that.
How I can give her everything. Walls that keep danger out. Windows that lock. A home with heat, safety…silence. A home that I guard.
Zalar doesn’t say a word as I step out and close the car door behind me. The wind bites at my collar. The street is quiet except for the low thrum of a neighbor’s music two floors up.
I climb the stairs and raise my fist.
For a moment, I hesitate.
Then I knock. Soft. Measured.
A beat passes.
Then I hear footsteps.
The door opens.
And there she is.
Jennie.
It’s the first time she’s standing directly in front of me like this.
We’ve been in the same room several times, when she attends Zoe and Lukin’s parties, or at the nightclubs, but we’ve never spoken or paid attention to each other.
No. She’s never paid attention to me. I always pay attention to her.
There’s never been a time in the past year since I met her for the first time that she doesn’t occupy my mind. She has driven me to obsession.
I’ll not be blamed for what happens from here on.
I stare down at her, my body and soul awakening in response to her nearness. Fucking hell.
She’s beautiful. She’s soft. Ethereal. Divine brown eyes, lips parted in surprise, hair tied up like she always wears it when she’s comfortable. Her skin glows in the hallway light, and for a second, I forget the world.
She looks at me—
—and says, “You?”
Just one word. Quiet. Not scared. Not startled. Just…knowing.
Like she’s seen me before.
Like she remembers me.
I freeze.
What the fuck?
My breath catches, but my face stays blank. Still. Controlled.
She stares up at me, brows slightly pinched, like she’s trying to place a memory just out of reach.
I don’t say anything yet.
Because for the first time in a long time—I’m the one caught off guard.
Does she know who I am?