Chapter 27 #2
Luke looks at me like I just suggested he jump off a bridge. “And what if it’s massive? What if I can’t hold it right and we destroy it on the way back? I don’t want to deal with that shit. Victoria will lose her goddamn mind and blame us for ruining her precious wedding.”
“Then we tell her to fuck off,” I say.
“Or,” Luke counters, “we just get the damn cake and avoid the drama.”
I’m already shaking my head. “Fuck that. I’ll make them a vanilla sponge cake myself. That’s more than they deserve anyway.”
Holt actually laughs at that.
“With some shit frosting from a can. Done.” I cross my arms. “Not spending my morning playing delivery boy for that woman.”
“Come on,” Luke says. “It’s for Cindy.”
And fuck, there it is. The only argument that actually works.
I glare at him. “That’s a low blow.”
“But it’s true.” Luke’s grin is smug. “We do this, grab the cake, get back before Cindy even wakes up. Then we never have to deal with Victoria’s bullshit again after today.”
“Fine,” I bite out. “Fuck. But our fridge in the basement had better be large enough for whatever monstrosity she ordered, or I’m leaving it outside and letting the wildlife have at it.”
“Deal,” Luke says.
Holt is already moving toward the door. “Let’s get dressed and go. Faster we leave, faster we’re back.”
I follow them inside, already regretting this decision.
We head upstairs to change. I grab jeans that are actually clean for once, a deep blue T-shirt, and my leather jacket.
Boots that have seen better days but are broken in just right.
As I’m dragging everything on, I glance at Cindy, who’s still sleeping.
She’s curled up in bed, blankets drawn up to her chin, hair spread across the pillow. Still out cold, breathing heavily.
I linger in the doorway for a second longer than I probably should, just watching her. Even like this, flushed and half buried in blankets, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
My chest squeezes, hard. I don’t know how we got lucky enough to have her, but hell if I’m ever letting her go.
I pull the door closed slowly, careful not to make a sound.
Luke appears in his doorway, pulling a shirt over his head. “Yeah. Let her have peace while she can. Once Victoria shows up, it’s gonna be chaos.”
We’re all ready in under ten minutes. Holt grabs the keys to his truck, and we head out through the front door, closing it quietly behind us.
The truck starts with a rumble that sounds too loud in the quiet morning. Holt backs out of the driveway, and we head toward the restaurant, where we keep the van.
I’m in the passenger seat, watching the sun finally start to crest the mountains. Halloween morning. The one day a year when everything is supposed to be spooky and fun, and here we are playing errand boys for a woman who treats her own daughter like a business transaction.
We reach the restaurant in fifteen minutes. Holt parks the truck, and we all pile out. The van is right where we left it, parked in the corner under a broken streetlight. I unlock it, and we climb in, with me driving.
The GPS directs us toward the industrial district, and I watch the city change outside the windows. Nice neighborhoods giving way to commercial areas, then to the warehouses and storage facilities that cluster near the old factories.
“Should be coming up on the left,” Luke states.
The building appears through the morning haze, with a faded sign out front: BAKED GOODS & CAKES. The front windows are dark, lights off. There’s a CLOSED sign hanging crooked on the door.
“Looks like a cheap-ass place, if you ask me,” Holt says, leaning forward to get a better look.
He’s not wrong. The whole building is run-down. Paint peeling off the siding, weeds growing up through cracks in the parking lot. Not exactly where I’d expect Victoria to order a wedding cake from, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe she’s cheaping out on this wedding.
“Go around the back,” Holt says, following the GPS directions. “Loading dock.”
We drive around to the alley behind the building. There’s a small parking area back here, cracked asphalt. A dumpster overflowing with trash. And the loading dock door, rolled up just enough to show darkness inside.
“This feels off,” I say.
“Yeah,” Luke agrees, but he’s already opening his door. “Let’s just grab the damn cake and get out of here.”
Holt and I exchange a look. Something about this isn’t sitting right with me. But we’re here. Might as well get it done.
We all climb out of the van.
Holt moves to open the back doors, keeping his eyes on the quiet dock.
“I’ll check it out,” Luke mutters, already heading for the loading bay. His hands are stuffed in his hoodie pockets, but there’s tension in his shoulders, the kind that says he doesn’t trust this.
“I’ll go with him,” I say, falling into step beside him. Holt nods, staying back with the van, one hand resting casually on the handle of the crowbar tucked near the back doors. Just in case.
Luke and I step through the open loading dock door.
It’s dark.
Not dim. Not shadowed.
Dark.
My boots scuff against concrete as my eyes adjust. This isn’t a bakery.
It’s a warehouse. An empty one.
Bare concrete floor stretching out in every direction, surrounded by steel walls and girders. No ovens. No cake. No racks. No lights, aside from the faint gray spill behind us.
Luke stops cold beside me. “This isn’t the right place.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I don’t like this.”
We move farther in. The air is stale and thick with dust and a chemical tang that clings to the back of my throat.
“Anyone here?” I call out, sharp.
Silence.
Then—
Thunk .
Something whips out from the side, fast and silent, a metal pipe or a bat, I can’t tell. It slams into Luke’s side. He grunts, stumbles. Then drops.
Just collapses beside me like his legs gave out, crumpling to the floor with a thud.
“Luke!” I bark, diving toward him, heart kicking into overdrive.
Behind me—“Arrow, MOVE!” Holt’s voice, fierce and cutting through the dark like a gunshot.
I spin around just in time to see Holt rushing in, a blur of movement as he grabs a figure that stepped from the shadows, a man in black.
Holt slams him into the wall, fists flying, teeth bared. Another man appears behind him.
He lunges.
A white cloth clamped in one gloved hand.
“Behind you!” I shout, sprinting toward them.
Holt twists just in time to elbow the guy in the throat, snarling. “You think that’s enough?!”
But the second attacker is already pressing the cloth against Holt’s face, dragging him down with a grip like iron.
I’m halfway to them when something crashes into my back.
I barely get my arm up before he’s on me, and a cloth slams over my mouth and nose.
The scent hits instantly. It’s chemical and suffocating.
I buck and twist, growling, fists swinging wild, but the bastard holds on. Military-tight.
The smell burns my nose and throat. It’s fucking chloroform.
I throw my elbow back as hard as I can, feel it connect with something solid. Ribs, maybe. The man behind me grunts, his breath rushing out, but his grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens. The cloth presses harder against my face, covering my nose and mouth completely.
Can’t breathe without inhaling more of it.
I try to hold my breath, try to fight, but my lungs are already screaming. My body is demanding oxygen, and there’s nowhere to get air except through that cloth.
Holt goes down. Just crumples, the man lowering him almost gently to the concrete like this is routine. Like he’s done this before.
My vision is getting fuzzy at the edges. Everything is starting to blur, sounds getting distant and muffled.
My legs aren’t working right. Too heavy. Can’t feel my feet anymore.
The warehouse tilts sideways, or maybe I’m falling. Can’t tell the difference.
My last coherent thought, before the darkness swallows everything: Fuck. How fucking stupid are we to have fallen for that bitch’s trap?
And then, as my consciousness slips away completely… Cindy .