62 - Frankie
62
Frankie
—
Wolf .
Oh, God, I loved him. I loved him so much, and he’s gone.
Gone.
I feel it in my chest, in my stomach, in the way my insides tremble and convulse as if my body is trying to reject reality.
It’s not just grief. It’s a bottomless, excruciating pit, swallowing all light, all air, and all hope.
The drug keeps me locked in the empty darkness, my anguish trapped with no release. Tears pour from my eyes, hot and unending. And silent. I can’t make a sound. I can’t free my agony.
“You can keep them as long as you want.” Rhett strokes my hair to comfort me, but it only deepens my horror. “They don’t stink. I embalmed them and preserved them in chambers of frost. They’re perfectly preserved for you, sweetheart.”
Chambers of frost? Does he mean a morgue refrigerator? I strain my eyes toward the walk-in freezer in the kitchen. Did he keep them in there? How did he transport them here without getting caught?
And what gives him the impression I would want this?
Revulsion curls through me. He desecrated their bodies and turned them into morbid displays for his twisted pleasure.
He went through a lot of effort to set this up. Although, if he wanted to hide bodies, this is the place to do it.
I imagine he didn’t have much time to prepare them. Some of their clothing must’ve been cut or partially removed to facilitate the embalming process.
Denver is shirtless. Sirena and Doyle wear the clothing I last saw them in. Same with Wolf. The bloodstained coat he borrowed from me hangs off his shoulders. The shirt beneath the coat appears dirty. Old.
He’s been dead for ten months.
I’m going to die here, too. I’m going to die in the place I fought so hard to escape, surrounded by the corpses of those I loved and hated.
Why else would he lay me on the table like a sacrifice, positioning me among the dead?
I’m meant to join them.
“You’ll be safe here.” His soft voice chills my lungs. “I’ll take care of you, just like I took care of them.”
Denver knew.
He knew exactly what was coming for me.
There’s another, lurking, yearning for you in a way far darker than my own affection.
I’m the silent ache, the shadow that lingers, the present from your past, the knife in your heart.
I want to scream and thrash and tear Rhett apart with my bare hands.
How could he do this?
How did he hide his evil from me all these years?
With my head turned toward Wolf’s body, I can’t pull my eyes from him. His face, once so expressive and adoring, droops with lifelessness, his beautiful blue eyes closed forever.
Rope digs into his chest, binding him to the chair in a cruel mockery of the man he was. Three empty chairs sit beside him, each with ropes already wound around the backs, waiting.
Waiting for Monty, Leo, and Kody.
Anguish, madness, soul-rending terror—it suffocates me from within, crushing me breath by breath.
Rhett’s going to put them in those chairs. He’s going to kill them all, just like he killed the others.
And he’ll make me watch.
I can’t—I won’t survive that.
The panic consumes, winding tighter and tighter with every second. I try to fight it, try to focus on anything other than the image of my men, dead and cold. But the thoughts keep crashing into me, one after the other, leaving me gasping for air I can’t gulp.
Horror and helplessness strangle me, and there’s nothing I can do but silently cry.
Rhett circles the table, his footfalls slow and deliberate, ticking through the kitchen like a countdown to the end of everything I love. I feel the vibrations of each step through the wood beneath me, through my bones, as if he’s already started digging my grave.
My skin shudders, every nerve alight with fear as he comes around to my feet. I want to pull away, to kick him, to fight, but my body is useless. The only muscle that moves is my overworked heart.
His eyes roam over me, dark and hungry, and I know what’s coming before he grips my ankles. His fingers dig into my skin as he tugs me toward him with a sharp jerk that clacks my teeth.
The movement sends my arm sliding off the table, and it falls limply onto Wolf’s lap. The sight of my hand resting on the sleeve of his coat lodges a soundless scream in my unmoving throat.
The IV line connected to my hand pulls slightly, the fluid bag and portable pump on the table beside my hip. Seeing that clear liquid dripping steadily into my veins fills me with cold, helpless rage.
He’s drugged me, drugged me so I can’t fight, can’t resist, can’t do anything but lie here and endure whatever sick, twisted plans he has for me.
“I need you again,” he murmurs, his voice sickeningly soft, like a lover’s whisper.
There’s no love in what he does next.
Untying the sash on the robe, he spreads my legs, his hands rough and greedy.
I want to vomit. I want to die. I want to be anywhere but here.
He grunts as he enters me, using my body the way Denver did one year ago. Only this time, my suffering won’t save Wolf.
It won’t save Monty, Leo, or Kody.
Tears slip down my temples and into my hair.
The horror of each thrust is too much. I feel myself slipping, my mind fraying at the edges. I want to end this nightmare, but I can’t even will myself to stop breathing. The drug keeps me alive, keeps me paralyzed, prolonging the torture.
Amid the despicable assault, I feel something.
It’s faint, invisible, but it’s there. Something warm against my hand, where it rests on Wolf’s sleeve.
My heart stutters, wild hope kicking through my veins. I must be imagining it, some cruel trick of the mind.
But no. I feel it again. A pulse of heat, a flicker of life.
My eyes dart to Wolf, my vision smeared with tears. He looks dead, his face ashen, his lips pale, and his chest as still as a frozen lake.
Then I feel it again. A twitch. A spasm. A tiny movement under my hand, so small it could be nothing.
But it’s not nothing. It’s hope. It’s life. It’s warm, living flesh.
His arm shifts so subtly beneath my fingers, adjusting just enough to let me feel his hand, the microscopic movements, and the blood pumping under his skin.
Oh, my God.
He’s not dead.
He’s alive. He’s fucking alive.
And he’s trying to hold my hand.
The realization crashes over me, so powerful it overwhelms me. Relief, joy, disbelief—it all hits at once. If my throat worked, I would choke on the intensity of it.
But what if I’m wrong? What if it’s just my mind, twisted by grief and fear, playing tricks on me?
I feel it again, and this time, there’s no doubt. He’s moving. He’s alive.
The tears that fall now are different, still silent, but no longer just despair. There’s something else in them. Hope. Desperate, fragile hope, but hope nonetheless.
Rhett finishes with a satisfied sigh, his breath hot and rancid against my chest.
He pulls my robe closed as if that can erase what he’s done.
Stepping back, he straightens his clothes and checks his phone. “They’re almost here.”
His gaze goes distant, like he’s already thinking ahead to the next atrocity he’s going to commit. Then he strides out of the kitchen, his footsteps retreating toward the front room.
As soon as he’s gone, the adrenaline hits me like a lightning bolt, searing through the fog of drugs and anguish.
Blood thrashes in my ears, and my heart hammers so fast I can hardly think.
Wolf is alive.
He’s alive.
He’s right here, with me, and we might have a chance. A slim one, but it’s something. I can’t lose him again. I can’t lose any of them.
I focus on his face, willing him to open his eyes, to give me some sign that he’s with me.
Is he unconscious? Drugged with a sedative, not a paralytic? I scan his body for any sign of an IV line or fluid bag, but I can’t see anything. It might be under his coat.
Is he fighting it, just like I’m fighting the chemicals in my veins?
I pour every ounce of energy I have left into my hand, willing it to move, to press against his skin. It’s agonizingly slow, my muscles straining against the drugs that hold them captive, but I keep pushing. I must. I must reach him.
Finally, after an eternity, I feel it. A twitch in my fingers. Just the tiniest movement, but it’s enough.
I press harder, trying to feel over his hand, searching for anything that might help.
My thumb brushes against his wrist.
There.
The sticky edge of a plastic dressing holding something in place. The IV line. It’s right there. So close.
I pick at the tape, my movements clumsy and weak, but I keep at it, scratching and pulling until I free one side.
My heart bangs so hard I’m afraid it’ll stop, but I don’t care. I have to save him.
But when I try to pull the line free, my fingers refuse to cooperate. I can’t grip it hard enough, can’t close my hand around it.
Panic spikes again, but I push it down.
Focus, Frankie. Keep trying.
Just as I’m about to lose hope, his wrist flicks beneath my fingers.
Oh, God, he’s helping me. He’s fighting, too.
I grip the line as best I can, and as he pulls his arm away, the IV slides free.
Holy fuck.
He’s free of the drug.
If it’s short-acting, he’ll have full consciousness soon. We might have a chance.
The sound of a plane rumbles overhead, shaking the cabin and rattling the windows.
They’re here.
My entire world.
The men Rhett plans to kill.
Maybe, just maybe, Wolf and I can stop him. Maybe we can save them, save each other, and end this nightmare once and for all.
Hope is a dangerous thing.
It crushes, darling.
Not this time, Wolf.
Hope is alive, a flicker of light in the darkness. And right now, it’s all I have.
The strength in my fingers drains as quickly as it came, and my hand falls limp.
Footsteps sound, announcing Rhett’s return.
Wolf’s arm twitches again, moving, slipping back into the sleeve where it was, hiding the dislodged IV.
Rhett stops beside Wolf and stares down at my hand on Wolf’s lap.
Please don’t check his IV. Please don’t look.
“He’s not dead.” Rhett tilts his head, searching my wide eyes. “I’m giving him Propofol.”
He lifts the hem of Wolf’s coat, revealing the bottom of the fluid bag beneath the zipper. The bag must be hanging from his neck to keep it upright.
He doesn’t check the IV line under Wolf’s sleeve.
Why would he? Neither of us can move.
Propofol is a sedative-hypnotic that typically wears off within five to ten minutes.
How long has it been?
“Wolfson, Kodiak, Leonid, and Montgomery.” Rhett ticks their names off his fingers. “I kept the Strakh men alive and brought them here to test their strength and loyalty.” He paces to the end of the table, standing above my head. “Wolf has been quite helpful over the past ten months, feeding me information about the family. Reluctantly, of course. It turns out he’ll do anything to save your life, even if he did aim a gun at you in the end. He wouldn’t have pulled that trigger. He doesn’t have it in him.”
He reaches behind him and removes a gun from his waistband. A pistol I recognize.
He found the armory.
“I have it in me.” He lowers into the chair at the head of the table and presses the barrel of the gun to my skull. “Let’s see how deep their loyalties run.”
My mind is a hurricane of panic, spinning faster and faster, whipping thoughts through my head so violently I can’t hold onto any of them. I can’t think, can’t focus, can’t breathe, because all I see is Wolf, sitting there like a corpse.
That’s exactly what his brothers and father will see when they walk in.
“They followed my instructions,” Rhett says. “I just watched them disembark the plane and remove their clothes. No one’s with them. I’m impressed.”
They won’t cooperate. They’re going to rage and lose control and get themselves shot.
I need to get a message to them, to let them know in about five minutes, Wolf will be fully conscious and ready to fight.
But I’m so utterly, completely trapped.
As the entryway door swings open, my heart explodes, slamming into my throat.
“Come in. Slowly. Hands where I can see them.” Rhett digs the gun against my head.
As my beautiful, naked men approach the kitchen, a warm hand curls around my wrist.
Wolf’s fingers move with strength and purpose, sliding under the sleeve of my robe. With one, smooth pull, he frees the IV line from my arm.
Fuck.
Yes.
Fifteen minutes.
I don’t have a plan, but one thing is certain. We’re going to fuck shit up.