Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
KNOX
“Is there a plan?” I asked as my driver pulled up in front of our destination.
Beyond the car were iron gates and a huge mansion down a drive.
“A plan?” Ace cocked an eyebrow at me. “Of course there’s a plan.” He flashed me a bitter smile before slipping through the limo door and vanishing.
My gaze slid to Rogue, and I caught the same hateful, narrowed-eyed look that I was feeling.
When we climbed out into the sun, it became more apparent how ridiculous Ace looked. His sunburn had faded, but still he was somehow pale, bare chest showing through an open black silk robe he’d found somewhere in the house, along with black sweatpants and socks.
He looked like he’d just got out of bed.
We hadn’t given him clothing, but he’d managed to steal the laptop from me, so I knew he could do better.
He simply didn’t want to.
Then there were the scars. Across his chest ran the marks Thistle had left—likely from when they’d heat bonded, since they weren’t raw anymore.
Hearts scattered his skin, and across his left pec, the word ‘Bunnie’ was etched in scrappy capitals.
I’d seen the others too, the ones not visible now: a ‘T+B’ on his arm, a lightning bolt on his right arm, a massive Omega symbol across his back, and a dozen of Thistle’s bites.
The effect was unhinged—and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of her marks.
Even Rogue had them—including a ‘T+R’ on his bicep.
She did want to give me that, right?
“You planned on pulling up at the front and asking to go in?” Rogue asked.
Ace shrugged, striding over to the huge iron gates which were, presumably, locked. He pressed the buzzer, leaning his shoulder lazily on the wall and crossing his ankles as we caught up to him.
I had begrudgingly removed the muzzle before we’d left, but the shock collar, an inconspicuous black band, remained.
“State your name and order of business,” a crackling voice said over the comms.
Ace didn’t reply, and I watched as his blue eyes, twice as piercing in the sunlight, darted up to the camera.
This was his plan?
Dumbass.
“Sir, state your—” This time the voice cut off. “Oh…”
I glanced at Rogue, who was side-eyeing me back. If there was one thing I hated Ace for most, it was that he forced me to share anything with Rogue. Even surprise.
“Strouse?” Ace asked. “You stayed.”
There was a long, long pause, then the buzz of static. “Just a paycheck, Boss. I knew the s-system. That’s all.” He sounded nervous.
“That’s all?” Ace pressed.
There was no way it was that easy—no fucking way.
But I could hear the heightened fear in the voice now. “Swear it, Sir. But I’m still loyal to you—whatever you need…”
Ace’s eyes darkened as he looked back at the camera. “I want all the security shut off and every lock open.”
“Y-yes, Sir. Doing it now.”
“And don’t tell him I’m here.”
“Of course, Sir,” he said before the static died.
“Him?” Rogue grunted, shooting Ace a look as he pushed on the gates, and found they were now unlocked.
“Playing the odds,” Ace murmured.
“You don’t know who’s inside?” I scoffed. “You could have had him tell you.”
Ace paused, halfway through, giving me an incredulous look. “And where would be the fun in that?”
And so, with that, the gates swung open and we did, in fact, just walk up the driveway.
Like he still owned the place.
It was a typical rich prick’s mansion, if much more well-kept than Rogue’s when I’d inherited it—not that I’d made an effort to fix that.
The lawns around us were freshly cut, looking almost perfectly uniform. They featured immaculate, colourful flowerbeds, bushes shaped like woodland animals, and a fountain in the middle of the circular drive—two spouts streaming from twin koi fish statues.
Ace hopped up the steps and shoved open one of the massive unlocked doors.
Inside was equally pretentious, another mirror of the Manzo home we lived in, only better kept. Clean rugs lined the hallways, and the art along the walls was well dusted.
We stepped into the grand foyer which offered a view down several hallways and up the sweeping stairs ahead, but Ace stopped.
He seemed more relaxed now, a faint smile playing on his lips.
His scent of redwood and roses matched his composure and there were still echoes of it deep in the bones of this place.
I shook away a shiver as my instincts whispered to me that we had just stepped into territory that belonged to him.
I took a breath, centering myself and focusing. If my read on him was right, not asking the guard who was inside hadn’t been strategy—it had been confidence.
It was a gamble.
He was playing a game.
While I hated giving Ace control over anything, I couldn’t deny he knew this place best, and it did give me an opportunity to test my hypothesis on what his primary drive was.
He almost immediately confirmed it, too.
He turned back to us, tugging out the gun that had been tucked into his waistband, and tossing it to Rogue.
“What are you doing?” Rogue growled, almost fumbling the catch.
“You have my back, don’t you, big guy?” he asked.
I almost laughed, but caught myself, not wanting to give him a reason for more smugness.
But—yup.
This was a game.
He poked around the edges of the foyer, examining several suits of armour—real, actual suits of armour. Finally, from one particularly decorated one made of black and gold metal, he plucked a… sceptre. It was gold and black with a dark, glinting claw at the end.
Jesus Christ, I hated him.
He turned it in his hands as if he were weighing it, then, apparently satisfied, made for the grand staircase ahead.
Again, I looked at Rogue, who was left with a second gun. He appeared as blindsided as I felt.
“He’s… as mad as she is, isn’t he?” Rogue muttered, turning the second gun in his hand before following.
“Performative bastard,” I muttered.
Since Ace was the only one who knew the place, we were stuck following him.
And since he clearly had no intention of playing it safe or subtle (banging the sceptre on the walls and balustrades as he passed), Rogue and I were both extra tense with our guns out.
It made me feel like a bodyguard, which dialled my annoyance up to fifteen.
Down a dim hall, Ace slowed, and I almost walked into him. I realised he’d stopped and was staring up at a huge painting on the wall.
In it were three people. A younger-looking Ace, another man around his age with silver hair, though with the same pale face and sharp features—his brother, Zed Maverick, I guessed.
And lastly, sitting between them was a much older man, though despite the age lines and sharp goatee, his piercing blue eyes made it clear he was their father.
The fact that Ace’s family was the portrait type didn’t surprise me in the least. What made it odd—and rather amusing—was the vandalism.
Red spray paint obstructed Ace’s eyes and mouth, painting over them with a cartoonish frown.
Above his brother’s head, in the same red, was a shoddily drawn crown.
“The new owner doesn’t like you very much,” I noted.
Ace let out a bitter snort. “Unless Kyan Quinn Beaumont ran into a lot of money far too quickly, the new owner of my estate isn’t the one who did this.”
The name rang a distant bell in my mind, but I couldn’t place it.
“New owner left it up, though,” Rogue noted, peering at the portrait with interest.
“He did.”
“Does that narrow it down?” I asked.
“It means they knew who the place belonged to,” Ace said. “But that’s no surprise.”
Ace was still staring at the piece, though, and there was a shadow in his eyes as if he were etching it into memory.
It was past the next hallway that we finally ran into a sign of life.
“Ah,” Ace said, peering through a partly open door. “We’ve found him.”
I glanced through the door after him.
Across the living room, past pool tables, and side tables laden with glasses and liquor, I saw a man with his feet kicked up on a gilded couch, reading a paper and sipping a hot drink.
He looked perhaps mid-forties, with a few flecks of age in his dark hair which was drawn up in a ponytail, and he had a neat goatee on his chin.
I drew back, letting Rogue peer after me, then turned back to Ace.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
Ace looked… disappointed, I thought. “Roman Vane. You know, it could be worse.”
“Is he dangerous?” Rogue asked as he stepped back.
Ace snorted. “Not in the slightest. He’s a vulture. Collector. Likes stolen treasures.”
“So… what’s the plan?” I said. “The house is in his name, I?—”
But he didn’t let me finish, instead shoving open the door and waltzing in.
Because of course he did.
Rolling my eyes, I followed, gun drawn.
Roman lurched to his feet as the door opened, drink clattering to the floor and his hand shot for what I could only presume was a gun at his waist. He froze mid-movement, however, as he caught sight of Ace.
Even from this distance, I could see the blood drain from his skin.
“Maverick…?” he asked, his voice cracking.
What I noticed distinctly as we entered was a shadow of movement in the hallway that led into the room. It was on the opposite side from us, but I saw the movement of two figures, maybe more.
Security?
But they didn’t enter, as if they were waiting.
And I knew what for.
They wouldn’t intervene until it became clear who they would do best supporting.
Me and Rogue, on the other hand, were stuck with the idiot sauntering in with nothing but a sceptre dragging on the marble floor. Without a choice, we’d both trained our weapons on Roman Vane.
Just like bodyguards.
For Thistle , I reminded myself. Not this giant prick.
I couldn’t help but glance at Rogue quickly. He had matched me, but he looked more curious than annoyed.
Apparently, I did have an ounce more pride than him.
“Roman Vane,” Ace drawled. “How… unsurprising, if a little disappointing.”