Chapter 33 - Jag
“You know why I’m here.” I rub my chest, forcing my heartbeat to behave.
“The favor.” Van flicks his fingers, impatient. “Let’s hear it.”
“I want a threat removed.” Leaning forward, I let my hands dangle between my knees. “There’s a criminal network hunting me.”
“Adrian Crowe.”
The name shoots ice down my spine.
Van Quiso saying it out loud tells me he already knows the threat and the terms of my favor.
Adrian Crowe founded House of Crowe, a network of shell companies that cater to talent agencies, retreat management, luxury villas, private aviation, and discreet shipping routes.
In other words, he runs a high-end sex-trafficking syndicate and cult-front organization for elite perverts and pedos, laundering influence and moving victims under the guise of luxury retreats, talent development, and global export logistics.
Of course, the cartel is aware of House of Crowe. Same trade, different criminals. They’ve been circling each other for years, feeding off the same industry and spilling blood every time their routes cross.
But how does the cartel know that Adrian Crowe is hunting me?
Van’s gaze narrows on the bandaged splint on my broken wrist. No one has asked me about the injury. Because they already know.
“You’re watching me.” My scalp tingles.
“Not as expertly as you watch us.”
No argument there. But that doesn’t make the invasion of my privacy any less horrifying. How much do they know?
“House of Crowe found me in Sitka.” I roll my neck. “I want them gone.”
“Why are they hunting you?”
Is he testing me? Or does he truly not know about my unfinished history with Adrian Crowe?
History I can’t let go. Call it revenge.
Or obsession. Or a goddamn suicide mission.
Whatever. I’ve been hellbent on gutting that fucker for twenty years, but he’s so deeply entrenched, networked, and insulated by decades of powerful alliances, he’s impossible to dislodge.
Un-fucking-touchable.
Not that I’ll admit any of that to Van. “I’m a threat.”
He knows I’m hiding shit, but his expression doesn’t change. He stares me down in that terrifyingly still way men like him do, parsing my words for weakness, not meaning.
“The FBI is hunting you, too.” He raises a brow.
“I can handle the alphabet agencies. I want you to take down House of Crowe.”
“Don’t you think if we could take down that West Coast circus, we would’ve done it by now?”
I shrug.
“We can help you. But you have to help us.” His sharp gaze digs into mine. “We want something in return.”
I don’t move.
“You’re secretive, intelligent, tenacious. Gutsy as fuck.” He cracks a grin, the toothpick jogging. “We need a man like that.”
“You have plenty of men.”
“A man who can erase a name off the map before breakfast.”
I sigh, annoyed. “You owe me a favor.”
“And you have a rare talent we want.” He aims a finger at me. “We want to hire you.”
“You want to own me.”
“There are many shades of ownership.”
“Says the man who owned sex slaves and sold them to the highest bidder.”
The sick fucking monster smiles.
“No one owns me.” I straighten, hardening my tone. “I don’t work for anyone. The answer is no.”
“You’ll change your mind.”
“You’ll have to kill me first. I won’t give the remaining years of my miserable life to a cartel. I know how that story ends. There’s only one way out.”
He examines me for a long, unbearable moment. Then his mouth crooks. “You’re not wrong.”
Death.
That’s the only way out.
But if I don’t accept their offer, I’m dead anyway. They’ll make sure of it.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuuuuuck!
I shouldn’t have come here. I’ve fucked up fantastically, and every instinct screams for an exit.
The shadows stir behind him. A door creaks open, and two shapes emerge from the darkness.
As the figures float closer, they blur into living glitches, forming the wrong copies of something familiar.
At first, I think the smoke’s playing tricks on me. Then I see the details. The same build. Same coloring. Similar facial features. One looks like Dove, the other like Wolf. A pair of distorted reflections. Almost indistinguishable.
Almost.
My gut squirms, telling me something’s off. Little things like the missing beauty mole on the woman’s collarbone and the slightly duller eye color on the man. Not noticeable to anyone.
I notice.
They stop in front of me, and I stop breathing. The resemblance is eerie enough to turn my stomach.
It’s not them. It’s not them.
The woman wears lace panties and nothing else. Long blue hair frames her honey-colored eyes. Her bone structure matches Dove’s. Same facial hardware. Same pretty pierced nipples. They harden beneath my stunned perusal.
Fuck me to hell and back.
The guy towers over her, lean and pale. Black hair hanging wild, corset pinched tight, thigh-high fishnets decorating his long legs, rings stacking his fingers, and eyes painted in smoky black.
A perfect echo of Wolf’s chaos. Most of the meat on his body appears to be stuffed into his spandex thong, the massive bulge stretching at the seams.
“What is this?” My insides contract as I fight an unwanted surge of heat.
Van doesn’t answer. He just watches, that half-smile curling under his scar.
The woman runs a hand along my shoulder, tracing the line of my collar, testing for a reaction. The man mirrors her, every movement synchronized.
“Proof.” Van leans back on the couch. “That we can give you whatever you want. Faces, bodies, obedience. A world tailored to your needs.”
“Sex slaves.”
“They’re here willingly. They want this.”
“I don’t.” I knock their hands away. “I’m not here for this.”
“Everyone’s here for sex.” He lifts a brow. “We exist to fuck, do we not?”
My sexual tastes run dark and freaky. Freaky enough to admit he’s not wrong.
A month ago, I would’ve bent the Wolf-lookalike over the coffee table and fucked him bareback while holding Van’s gaze.
But now?
I’m not tempted. Not even a little.
I’ve felt Wolf’s touch and experienced his passion. And Dove? No one can replace her. Not now. Not ever. Hell knows I’ve tried.
“I’m here to call in a favor.” I dodge the breasts bouncing in my face. “Remove House of Crowe from Alaska. That’s it. Get them off my back, and we’re done.”
“If we do that, what then? You crawl back to your cot in the tattoo shop and pretend Adrian won’t send more crows to Alaska?”
How the fuck does he know I sleep on a cot? Dread ices my stomach.
“You could have power here.” He spreads his arms, indicating his violent world. “Money, control, and all the little birds and wolves your cock desires.”
In exchange, he wants the same thing Adrian Crowe wants. A hacker who can outthink, outcode, and outghost the competition.
Except Crowe doesn’t just want me. He wants the one thing I’ll never surrender.
Dove.
“We’ll fix your problem.” Van twitches a shoulder in a lazy shrug, as if my decision doesn’t matter. “Your dove and her wolf can go on living their safe fairy tale, while you build something real with us. Win-win.”
The hot, unmistakable touch of Fake-Wolf’s leather bulge rubs against my arm.
I jerk away. “Is this a game?”
“It’s a down payment. They’re yours to do with whatever you want.”
“Everything I want is in Sitka.”
For a heartbeat, Van studies me, his gray eyes cold as winter. The toothpick turns once, a slow rotation. “You have attachment problems, Jag. In this business, emotion will kill you faster than a bullet.”
He wants to go there? Fine. We’ll go there.
I reach up and fist my good hand in Not-Wolf’s hair. The man’s startled gaze flies to mine.
“Take off your clothes.” I release him, roughly.
He jumps into action, loosening the ties on his corset and peeling off his fishnet stockings. With a seductive curl of his body, he positions himself in the space between my knees, standing before me in just the thong.
“Did I tell you to stop?” I direct my gaze at the remaining fabric.
Biting down on a grin, he shimmies off the thong and angles his impressive erection toward my face.
I recline into a sprawl and rest my chin on my loosely curled fist. “Are you a good kisser, handsome?”
“Yes.” He runs a hand along his twitching dick. “Very good.”
“Show me.”
He bends, bringing his mouth toward mine.
I stop him with a finger against his lips.
“Not me.” I nod to the silver-eyed monster on the couch. “Him.”
Naked Wolf freezes, and genuine fear crosses his pretty features.
“Go on. Both of you.” I pat his hip and wave the decoys toward Van.
“What are you doing?” Van straightens. “They’re yours.”
“To do with whatever I want.” My eyes lock onto his. “This is what I want. I want you to fuck them while I watch.”
I give the lookalikes a nod, wordlessly ordering them to do my bidding.
Slowly, stiffly, they walk to the couch and kneel on the cushions, bracketing Van. The woman doesn’t appear to be breathing as she reaches for his shirt.
“Stop.” He catches her wrist and pushes her away.
That was fast.
“Attachment is a problem. Emotion will get you killed.” I lean forward, shooting Van a knowing look. “That advice from the man who keeps his wife locked in a cartel fortress she’s too afraid to leave.”
The toothpick stops moving.
I keep going. “Amber, right? The pageant queen. Agoraphobic. Is she still counting the tiles on her bathroom floor to keep the panic away?”
Van’s jaw works, a muscle feathering near the scar.
“How far will you go to protect her from this life?” I ask quietly. “Same as me, I bet. Far enough to vanquish anything that threatens her.”
The toothpick hangs limply on his lip, forgotten. For the first time since I walked in, he looks human. Not weaker. Just real.
The room holds its breath, the tension suffocating.
Then it shatters when she walks in.
No jewelry or designer gown. No entourage of bodyguards. Nothing to signal she’s the queen of the cartel. Just her fuck-all presence and warrior prowess. That’s all she needs.