10. Declan
DECLAN
The hallway is too quiet. My fingers drum against my thigh as I lean back against the wall. My phone rings—Kellan—and I consider letting it ring before answering. “ Aye? ”
“I’m coming back. The target isn’t here,” he says, his voice accusatory. He sounds like he knows that I sent him on a fool’s errand.
I could tell him I need him to stay there, but the truth is, by the time he makes it back, Caroline will be dead. I don’t care what he does. “Fine,” I say simply and hang up so I can focus on listening to what’s going on behind the door of the bedroom.
Rian should have called me in by now. It should have taken five minutes to kill the girl. By now, he should need me to come help him with the blood and the body.
I don’t know what else he could be doing until I hear an unmistakable, familiar sound. Not a sound of fear or pain, but desire. A moan.
Is he…? I don’t wait. I slam my shoulder into the door, and it bursts inward with a bang that shakes the frame.
The scene inside freezes time for a second.
Caroline is on the bed, naked, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her body since all those years ago.
It looks almost the same, maybe slightly more freckled, and she has longer hair than she did then.
Bangs. Her lips are thinner and wide open along with her eyes.
Her hands are on Rian’s tattoo, poised above it like she’s considering.
And Rian. Above her, his ass out, his shirt off, thrusting into her with a smile like a wolf’s growl.
Her eyes close with every move, then open again.
She flicks her eyes to me and then looks back and forth, her mouth opening wider.
For a second, it’s open in a silent scream, but then she lets go, screeching and slapping Rian’s chest.
I lunge toward her to grab her legs, but when I do, Rian grips one of my wrists, jumping off Caroline. His face is twisted in something I don’t understand, something close to panic.
“What the fuck is this?” I snarl, yanking my hand away from him. His cock dangles in front of me, hard and shining with her juices.
Caroline is scrambling to stand. She lurches toward the door, and Kellan appears, as if out of nowhere.
He doesn’t look surprised by the scene at all, his face impassive, observant. He blocks the doorway, sliding smoothly to fill the gap and holding on to the doorframe.
Rian steps toward me, his stance offensive, like a linebacker. “Don’t you fucking touch her, Declan.”
I’m so shocked by the statement, so confused by his switch from a part of the plan to my opponent, that for a moment, I don’t touch her. I look over at her, caged, unsure of her next move, and then before I can look back, Rian lunges at me, trying to take me down.
I don’t stumble as I dodge him easily. I have years on him, and I’ve never let my guard down for a woman.
For just a second, he’s still, recalibrating.
I watch his shoulders for a twitch of movement, and when he goes in for a punch to my jaw, I slam him backward into the dresser.
The lamp shatters. He slides to the ground, and I stand over him, ceramic around us.
It crunches underneath my shoes. “Stay down, or next time you won’t have the option to. ”
Caroline screams beside us, and I whirl, remembering her suddenly.
It had become about Rian’s betrayal, but now, seeing the sweat on her brow, her body crouching to cover herself, I remember that she’s the point.
I nod at Kellan. From behind her, he grabs her arms before she even registers it’s happening. I grab her ankles.
She goes limp, trying to fight with inaction as we lift her. Her face is twisted in a mixture of fury, shame, and fear, but the fury is more present. She kicks her legs wildly, trying to break free, but we manage to throw her onto the bed.
When we do, a wet spot blooms across the blanket, darkening the fabric. She continues to kick at me, and an acrid scent fills my nostrils. She’s pissed herself. The thought brings me sick satisfaction. She can look as tough as she wants, but I know she’s afraid.
I try to get the handcuffs out, something I would have done earlier if I wasn’t so thrown off by the fight with Rian.
Caroline lashes out as I approach—one long, pale leg striking me square in the jaw. My head snaps to the side, pain blooming instantly. I stagger back, hand pressed to the spot, already feeling the bruise rise.
Her eyes are wide and wild and all survival. No softness or fear left in them. It’s all fire. She scrambles off the bed, bare feet slapping the floor, headed for the door. I lunge for her naked waist, and her skin is slick with sweat, hot and alive under my palms.
She throws an elbow back and cracks it right into my nose.
I feel the cartilage shift, and then the blood comes, hot and fast, pouring down my face.
Frustration mounting, I wrap my arm around her throat and lean close to her ear.
“Stop fucking moving,” I snarl, my breath ragged, “or I’ll kill you right now. ”
“You’re going to kill me anyway,” she squeaks, her windpipe constricted by my arm.
“Then I’ll leave your body like this,” I growl into her ear, “so the cops can tell your family you died a whore.”
“You already took my family from me once,” she gasps from under my forearm, but she goes still.
I finally, mercifully, get her down on the ground and handcuffed to a leg of the bed.
Unless she can lift a bed by herself, she’s stuck here.
My legs are around her, and she watches me with wary eyes as she scoots into a position where she’s sitting up, her shoulder lopsided.
She tries to move her arm into a more comfortable position and eventually gives up, going slack against the bed.
I tell her, “This isn’t how it has to go. You can be good.” Our faces are close, and her hazel eyes are brighter than I remembered. She’s changed. Hardened. The girl from the club, trembling and shy, afraid of what it meant to want, is gone. Replaced with a bitter animal.
As I admire her, she spits in my eye, and I stumble backward, my rage simmering. No woman has ever fought back so hard. She’s a fighter, a survivor.
Not for long, but not in vain either. Someone saw her. I saw her. And even though she will die, she will die seen.
I wipe the spit from my eye and turn to face the fear in her eyes, but there’s none there, only resentment. Her anger is a mirror to mine. “That’s good,” I tell her. “Keep fighting. I like a challenge.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
We scan each other, two people collecting data on the opponent, and I can see that it’s true. I nod silently, turning to Rian.
“You’re SICK!” Caroline screams at my back. I don’t know why, but I turn to face her. Her face is twisted and contorted, and her hands are red against the cuffs as she strains.
But I also see how hard her nipples are, how flushed her chest is, how wet the spot on the floor beneath her is. Smirking, I tell her, “So are you.”
And maybe it’s just anger or fear or heat from the fight billowing to her cheeks, but when I say it, she blushes, and I like it.
And I decide that it means something else.