Chapter 39
RYKER
The sting is a familiar song. A sharp, high note, followed by the dull, throbbing chorus of blood welling to the surface.
I’m strapped to an X-shaped cross in the center of a room that smells of bleach and fear, my shirt in tatters on the floor.
Four men in the pristine black cloaks of the Paragons of Piss-ory circle me like vultures, their faces alight with a sickly delight, having removed their masks shortly after entering.
It’s obvious they don’t expect me to live long enough to identify them after the fact.
Dumb, arrogant fucks.
One of them, a man with weasel-like features and nervous hands, drags the tip of his blade across my ribs, not deep enough to kill, just deep enough to make it interesting.
I laugh. It’s a wet, ragged sound, but it’s genuine. The weasel flinches, his hand stilling.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I rasp, grinning through the pain. “This isn’t the first time someone’s tried to carve their initials into me. You’ll have to be more creative.”
Another one, a brute with a neck thicker than his head, backhands me across the face. My head snaps to the side, and I taste fresh blood. “Shut your mouth,” he snarls.
But I won’t. I’ve had worse. I’ve had bullets, beatings, and betrayals that cut deeper than any blade. Pain is an old friend. Fear, however, is a stranger I have no intention of meeting.
Somehow, some way, I’ll find a way to free myself. Then I’ll kill each and every one of these fucks before leaving to find Ellie. I don’t know where I am or what’s going on, but it’s obvious Aria has been made aware of our deception.
Ellie is in danger, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get to her. Fuck subterfuge.
The door to the room opens, and the four vultures immediately straighten, their playful cruelty replaced by rigid deference.
A man steps in.
He’s older than me, maybe mid-thirties, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that looks out of place in this dungeon of a room. He smells of expensive cologne and entitlement.
I know him, and the sight has rage whipping through me, clouding all rational thought.
Mr. Moreau.
I haven’t seen the pervy asshole since I beat the shit out of him and he skipped town.
I should’ve killed him. Would’ve, too, if we hadn’t been worried about the murder being traced back to us.
He circles me, his gaze clinical, appraising. He ignores the POP members, his eyes only for me, or rather, for what I represent.
“She’s a beautiful thing, isn’t she?” he says, his voice a smooth, cultured purr. “Ellie. I remember when I first saw her. Fire in her eyes. A spirit just waiting to be broken.”
He stops in front of me, and cold dread, far worse than the sting of the blades, seeps into my bones. “I’m her newest buyer,” he confesses, a small, proud smile on his lips. “And I’ve been waiting a damn long time to collect what I’m owed.”
Rage like I’ve never felt before streaks through me, crystallizing my blood. It descends across my vision in a red haze.
He leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that fills the room.
“I have a very particular evening planned for her. First, I’ll start with her hands.
I want to see those pretty fingers wrapped around a blade as I teach her the price of defiance.
Then I’ll move on to that mouth. I’ll fuck it until she can’t scream, and then I’ll fuck what’s left of her spirit until she’s just a hollow, trembling thing, begging for the mercy I’ll never give. ”
He stands up, adjusting his cufflinks. “I knew when I first purchased Ellie that it was a trap. I would have to be an idiot not to know that the last few men and women who bought her ended up dead. The Divine One obviously wanted me taken out—probably because I’ve never bought into the whole Cassia religion.
” He chuckles, a dry, dusty sound. “But The Divine One underestimates how much a single night with a creature like Ellie is worth. It’s a price I’ll gladly pay. ”
Something inside me snaps. It’s not a clean break. It’s a violent, shattering explosion. The pain, the straps, the cross—it all fades away. There is only his voice, his words, and the image of Ellie in his hands.
A roar tears from my throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury. I thrash against my restraints, the leather biting into my wrists and ankles, the frame of the cross groaning under the strain. I’m not a man anymore; I’m an animal, and I will tear him apart with my teeth.
The weasel with the knife steps forward, ready to shut me up for good.
And then his head explodes.
It’s not a metaphor. One moment, he’s there; the next, his face is a shower of red and gray mist, and his body is collapsing to the floor.
The other three fuckers don’t even have time to register surprise before their heads erupt in a similar, violent fashion.
They drop in unison, a quartet of puppets with their strings cut.
Moreau stares, his mouth agape in horror. Before he can scream, a dark figure moves from the doorway like a shadow. There’s a sickening thud of metal meeting bone, and Moreau crumples to the floor in a heap.
The figure steps into the light.
Landon.
He’s holding a silenced pistol, probably one he stole from a dead POP guard, a grim, tired look on his face. He lowers his weapon and looks at me, strapped to the cross, bloody and furious.
“Well, look at you,” he says, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “The pretty princess in her tower. And I suppose this makes me your handsome prince.”
“Cut me down, asshole,” I rasp.
He works quickly, cutting the leather straps with a combat knife that he takes from the dead weasel—the same knife they used to slice at my skin.
I slump to the floor, my muscles screaming in protest, but the rage is a fire in my veins, burning away the weakness.
I don’t waste a second. I grab Moreau’s discarded suit jacket, wrap it around my fist, and kick the unconscious man onto his back.
Landon doesn’t say a word. He just hands me his knife.
I don’t remember everything I do. It’s a blur of motion and a symphony of wet, tearing sounds.
I know I make it last. I know I make him pay for every filthy word he spoke about Ellie.
When I’m finally done, I’m breathing hard, covered in blood that isn’t all mine, and the rage has cooled into a single, burning purpose.
It’s done.
Mr. Moreau won’t hurt Ellie ever again.
He won’t hurt anyone.
Landon claps a hand on my shoulder. “Come on. We have to move.”
We have to move.
We have to move.
We have to move.
I suck in a shuddering breath.
Ellie needs me.
With considerable effort, I pull myself away from Mr. Moreau’s dead, beaten body and give Landon a curt nod. That one eloquent motion says, I’m in control. I’m fine. We need to find our girl.
We stumble out into the hallway, leaving the carnage behind us.
That’s when we see them.
A team of men and women in tactical gear, FBI emblazoned on their vests, is sweeping down the corridor, weapons raised. They move with professional precision, a stark contrast to the chaos we just left.
One of them sees us, his eyes widening slightly at our blood-soaked appearance, but instead of stopping, he yells into his comms, “Clear on the east wing! Moving to the ballroom!”
My heart stops. FBI.
Did Landon call them?
It’s obvious at least one of them recognized us, but he didn’t alert the others. I have a feeling he’s on a certain someone’s payroll.
Speaking of…
“Where’s Raymond?” I ask Landon, my voice low.
Landon’s face is grim. “I haven’t seen him yet, but Piper overheard some POP members discussing him. He escaped his guards and is somewhere in the building.”
Fuck.
Shit is about to go down. The raid, the cult, Aria—it’s all converging into a perfect storm. The FBI is here for a takedown, but we’re here for Ellie.
We look at each other, the same understanding passing between us.
“We have to find her,” I say.
Landon nods, his expression hardening. “And the others.”