Chapter 56
Across the VIP lounge, the bodyguards rush Adrian Crowe toward a private exit.
Hope in motion. Adorable. I almost admire the optimism.
I set two fingers in my mouth and release a loud whistle, drawing their attention.
“I’ll level the place before you make it to that door.
” I hold up my hand and point to the small switch on the underside of my rings.
“If you shoot me, the bomb blows. If you piss me off, the bomb blows. If Mr. Crowe doesn’t return his ass to that chair, guess what?
” I look at my sour-faced escort. “Tell them, baby doll.”
“The bomb blows,” he grumbles.
The weapons trained on me don’t matter. Everyone in the room knows my weapon is bigger.
Crowe studies my face, my inked smile, and the open vest. He swallows and lowers himself back into the chair.
I clock the one man at the bar who doesn’t move. He chews a toothpick like it owes him money. A wicked scar divides his face, and his eyes stay with me. No flinch. No rush. Just watching and measuring.
He takes his time standing, gives me a look that promises it won’t be the last, and follows the others out. As he passes through the door, the creepy smile he flings over his shoulder rivals mine.
I shake it off and cross the room.
Every step pulls a dozen guns with me, muzzles tracking, fingers on triggers, and breaths held.
I don’t rush. Rushing looks nervous.
At Crowe’s table, I hook a chair with my boot, drag it out slow enough to be annoying, and sit with a heavy sigh.
Up close, he’s exactly what the world pays for and consumes. Mid-sixties, physically fit in the curated way money buys, silver threaded neatly through dark hair. His smile is practiced, meant to reassure donors, clients, and anyone young enough to mistake charisma for kindness.
But his eyes won’t settle. They dart to the vest, to my hands, to the exits that won’t help him.
“The guns are making me twitchy.” I wriggle my thumb over the switch near my palm, close enough to be suggestive.
A ripple moves through the guards.
Crowe lifts one hand, palm down.
They pull back a step. Then another. Still close. Still armed. But no longer breathing down my neck.
Better.
“Wow.” I lean forward, elbows on the table, grin stretching psycho-wide. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Crowe blinks.
“I mean… You,” I gush, pitching it high and bright, all cracked enthusiasm. “I’ve never met a famous person. This is insane. Can we take a selfie? Because, you know, if there’s no photo, it never happened.”
“What?” He stares at me like I just tripped from borderline to completely off-the-rails.
“Shit.” I pat my nonexistent pockets, frown, and sigh dramatically. “I don’t have my phone. Typical. Every time something epic happens.”
He watches me as if trying to determine if my insanity is real or strategic. Unease leaks through the polish. Not panic, but his calculating demeanor is definitely going fuzzy at the edges. He’s used to owning rooms. And now? He knows the room no longer belongs to him.
“You made your point.” His voice is smooth, honed to sell retreats and nonconsent in the same breath. “Let’s lower the theatrics.”
“You first.”
For a half second, the smile he’s famous for wobbles.
Good. Now he’s listening.
I lean in, letting the manic edge drain away. I’m done performing.
“Let’s chat about Jag Rath.” I drop the temperature in my tone, cold as a polar night. “You have him in a room under us. Concrete. No windows.”
Crowe’s eyes flick down, then back to me. Tiny tell. Not enough to give him away in court. But plenty for me.
“I’m not here to negotiate philosophy.” I drum my ringed fingers on the table. “You’re going to take me to him. I’m going to collect what I came for. Then I’ll walk out the same door I came in. No sirens. No big boom.”
I don’t say her name. I won’t.
Mikhail couldn’t confirm she’s in this building, and I’m not about to drag her into a room she might not be near. If Dove is here, Jag will tell me the second he sees my face. If she isn’t, if she’s somewhere else entirely, I’ll probably make a bloody mess out of some throats.
Future-Wolf problems.
“You’re making assumptions.” Crowe studies me, the practiced calm back in place, but thinner now.
“I’m making a schedule.” I smile again, this one meaner. “You can walk me down there, or I can start improvising with explosives. I’m leaving with Jag Rath, or we’re all leaving in pieces. Your choice.”
“Do you know why I let you into my club?”
“Because you thought I was an underage girl?”
He ignores the jab. “Because I know your family. The moment Jag Rath entangled himself with you, I had you investigated. Curiously, your name doesn’t exist the way it should. No trail. No childhood or schooling. Nothing that explains you.”
“I lived off-grid with a psychopath for twenty-four years.”
If that surprises him, he doesn’t show it. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-four. Too legal for you, honeybun.”
He blinks once, the math catching up.
“If you did your homework, you’d know I lean hard into suicidal solutions.” I recline in the chair, the bomb on full display. “Go ahead. Call my bluff.”
I know how deranged I must look to him with my sequins, eyeliner, painted smile, and plan that ends in dismemberment.
“What do you want with Rath?” His gaze dips to the exposed scars on my chest.
“I was raised by a monster who preyed on kids and told us we were special.”
His face empties.
“I recognize the type.” I look him up and down.
“You collect children, abuse them until you’re bored, pass them on to your friends, and make a profit on their suffering.
” I fold my hands on the table, metal rings clinking together.
“You took Jag because he’s useful. A skill set like his will clean up your messes, erase your filthy tracks, and keep you out of prison. ”
Crowe opens his mouth.
“I’ll kill him before I let you keep a weapon like that.” I tip my head, inked smile holding. “If the only way to stop you is to turn this place into rubble, I’ll pay that price. So choose. Give me the hacker and keep breathing. Or play your games and find out how serious I am.”
My heart pounds in my throat, and I wonder if he notices. His terrible silence lasts too long, tightening my skin and sandblasting my lungs.
Then I see it, the moment it lands, the exact second his options finish rearranging themselves. The mask evaporates. The choices narrow, and he realizes there’s no angle left where he keeps both his control and his survival.
“Follow me.” He pushes his chair back.
Survival, it is.
The guards close in immediately, a tight ring of suits and steel. Crowe doesn’t look at them. He turns stiffly and walks.
I rise and go with him.
We slip through a private exit behind velvet curtains, turn into a corridor, and open a door to the rear stairwell.
“Yay.” I clap my hands. “Basement time.”
Crowe leads. I follow. Guns move with us, never more than a breath away.
And that is how I get a free guided tour of Adrian Crowe’s dungeon.
“Wolf.” Oliver’s voice cuts into my earpiece. “This could be a trap.”
I almost laugh as the door closes behind us, sealing off the easy exit and any change of heart.
It all makes sense now. Crowe didn’t let me into his club because he was curious. The instant I said Jag’s name at the door, that made me a loose end he needed to erase.
Skip the foreplay. Welcome to the kill room.
He had a tidy ending in mind but didn’t budget for the bomb. Rookie mistake.
I keep walking, down the stairs, and straight into the part where people disappear.
My nerves riot, and my heart sprints frantically. I don’t let it show.
The underground tunnel echoes with our footsteps. Cameras stud the low ceiling at regular intervals, black lenses staring straight down. Fluorescent strips light the way. No signs on the bare concrete. No sounds of life.
No voices. No crying. No begging. Not even the echo of music bleeding from above.
I should be performing. I should be cracking maniacal jokes, flashing the inked grin, and playing the role of damaged goods. But my tongue is two sizes too big, and my throat is trying to swallow itself.
I don’t know if Jag is missing body parts or broken beyond recognition. I don’t know if Dove is here or already dead. I run through the worst versions in my head and force myself to accept them now, here, before they can knock me flat later.
Hope is crushing. Preparation isn’t. I keep my face loose, breathing measured, and hands motionless while I brace myself for whatever waits at the end of this tunnel.
Crowe slows.
Ahead, a single steel door interrupts the corridor. One guard stands watch, rifle held at rest, eyes forward. He doesn’t blink at my Glasgow smile, my skirt, or my open vest. He doesn’t react to any of us.
Not until Crowe nods at him.
He pulls open the door and steps aside.
“Inside.” My heart rate goes ballistic, but I keep my voice even. “All of you.”
When Crowe hesitates, I lift my hand and wave the switch in his face.
“All the crows. Including their rapey daddy.” I drop my voice to a stage whisper. “That’s you.”
The guards file inside, and Crowe follows. The room beyond smells like disinfectant, metal, and something I refuse to identify.
I step over the threshold last, close the door, and…
My heart stops.
The scene hits like an explosion in my chest.
Jag is on his knees against the far wall. Shackles bite into his wrists, his arms wrenched back and chained high enough to keep him from collapsing forward.
A brutal contraption forces his head upright. It straps to his face, leather cinched tight, and metal prongs prying his eyes open, refusing him the mercy of blinking.
He knows he’s not alone, but he can’t turn his neck. He can’t see me by the door.
His bloodshot eyes leak red-tinged tears and fury. Dried blood cakes his throat and chest. New bruises bloom over old ones. Ten days’ worth.
He’s barely recognizable. Except for the pants. He wears the same gray sweatpants from the video of his capture.
My chest buckles, straining to release a roar. My lungs seize, breath hitching fast. Panic claws up my spine, wanting out through my throat.
I don’t let it. I lock everything down, face blank, eyes flat. They can’t see it. They cannot know.
“Wolf.” Oliver’s voice snaps through my earpiece. “I can hear your breathing. Slow it down. Now.”
I stare at Jag’s ruined face and tell myself to breathe like this is just another room, another problem, another monster I can handle. I’m still the one in control.
“Remember the mission.” Oliver exhales. “Get Jag and Dove and get out.”
Dove.
My vision tunnels.
“There’s a screen,” Oliver says. “I need you to show me what he’s being forced to watch.”
I already know.
The screen sits out of my line of sight, angled away from me, positioned perfectly so Jag can’t escape it. I don’t want to look. I don’t want confirmation of the thing already tearing holes through my heart.
Because if they’re using her as leverage, if Jag’s still resisting, they’re hurting her. Probably right now.
“Wolf,” Oliver says, sharper this time. “Pull your shit together. I need eyes on that screen.”
I can’t feel my feet. They’re disconnected from the rest of me as I force them forward, each step mechanical, completely detached from the body that’s trying its damnedest to fold itself in half.
I move toward Jag. Toward the screen. Toward whatever they’re using to break him. And I pray to the false God of miserable Earth that I’m wrong.
As I pass Crowe, I grip his arm and drag him with me, keeping him close enough to remind him why he’s still alive.
When I step into Jag’s view, I don’t glance at him. I can’t. Not yet. I don’t trust myself to meet his eyes and keep my face vacant. One crack, and they’ll see it. One twitch, and Crowe will call my bluff.
Instead, I turn my body toward the screen, angle the pendant at my throat, and let the tiny lens catch what I don’t want to see.
Then I force myself to look.
The soundless feed is already rolling.
My brain skids, scrambles, and grabs fragments.
Dove.
Restrained to a bed.
Naked.
Gagged.
Body stretched like an X.
A man between her legs.
Hurting her the way Denver hurt me.
Thrusting.
Thrusting.
Thrusting.
The video, the room, everything smears into a hot, violent, blood-red blur.
It hurts.
It hurts in ways I’ve never hurt before.
Rage crashes in from every direction, molten and blinding. It feels like I’m swallowing glass and dying a thousand fiery deaths.
Anguish stabs behind my eyes, the unbearable pressure splitting my skull. Breathing becomes a conscious act, each inhale and exhale ripping me apart as I fight to keep the sounds from leaking out.
I don’t blink or react. My posture stays loose. But the effort costs me. I clamp my teeth too hard, and the razor bites back.
Pain spikes inside my cheek. Copper washes across my tongue, and a warm trickle runs down my chin.
I relax my jaw, but it’s already done.
“You’re bleeding.” Crowe stares at my mouth.
“Smile, Wolf,” Oliver says in my ear. “Give them your worst, most crazed smile. Make them look away.”
How? How can I smile with a fucking sob stuffed in my throat? Everything inside me is shaking violently, unraveling, coming apart at the seams.
My seams.
She’s my seams. She’s my fairy tale, my queen, my happily ever after and after and after…
And they’re hurting her.
Raping her.
Every unsound, no-return, cliff-diving part of me wants to swipe my thumb and blow these ass pelicans into shits and bits.
But I won’t.
I won’t give up on Jag. I won’t quit until Dove is free.
This isn’t the end.
Make them look away.
I drag the corners of my mouth up by force alone, blood in my teeth, muscles screaming, and cheeks stretching where they don’t want to go. I make it wide. Too wide. I make it wrong.
It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
The room recoils from it, eyes sliding away and discomfort rippling with a shudder.
I hold the grin, jaw burning, blood slick and metallic.
New plan.
No retreat. No restraint. Tonight is the reckoning.