31. Declan
31
DECLAN
I’ve seen many things in my time. Done many things that would make lesser men cringe. But the sight of Synthia Fuller breaking apart in Tristan’s arms has awakened something primal in me that I’ve never felt before. A need to protect that goes beyond simple alpha instinct.
A child. Her child. Taken from her.
The alpha in me roars with rage. I enter the room fully, letting the door close behind me.
“How much did you hear?” Tristan asks, his voice tight with emotion.
“All of it,” I reply, my gaze drifting to the closed bathroom door where I can hear Syn’s muffled sobs.
Tarquin sets the clock back down on the nightstand, his expression glacial. Only those who know him well would recognise the murderous rage simmering beneath his controlled exterior.
“She’s been paying a extortioner for two years,” Tarquin says, his voice deceptively calm. “Her ex. The father of her child. He’s been extorting her with promises of returning her daughter.”
“Three years old,” I murmur, doing the math. “He’s had her since she was a baby.”
Tristan nods. “She thought if she could just get the three million, he’d finally give her daughter back and disappear.”
“Na?ve,” Tarquin says, but there’s no judgment in his tone—only a deep sadness that I rarely hear from him.
“Desperate,” I correct. “A mother who’d do anything to get her child back.”
The bathroom door remains closed, but the sobbing has quieted. I wonder what she’s doing in there, if she’s listening to us discuss her life as if we have any right to it.
“We need a name,” I say, moving further into the room. “The ex. Who is he?”
Tristan shakes his head. “She didn’t say.”
“Your investigator,” I turn to Tarquin. “How quickly can they dig this up?”
“I’ll have them focus exclusively on this. A day, maybe two.” Tarquin pulls out his phone, fingers already typing a message.
“That’s too long,” Tristan says. “Every minute that passes is another minute her daughter is in that monster’s hands.”
I walk to the bathroom door and knock gently. “Synthia? We need to talk.”
Silence greets me. Then, “Go away.” The sound of rushing water comes through the door.
I turn the handle, but she’s locked it. “Synthia, I know this is a nightmare for you, but we can help.”
“You can’t. You won’t give me the money, so I will never get her back.”
I rest my forehead against the door, lowering my voice. “Listen to me. Giving him money won’t solve this. He’ll take it and ask for more. That’s how extortion works.”
She doesn’t reply. I look at Tarquin with a raised eyebrow. He raises his back and makes a vague gesture.
I grin and turn back to the door. I’ve always fucking wanted to do this. Raising my foot, I slam it into the door. The wood splinters with a satisfying crack as the door flies open. Striding inside, I see Synthia sitting in the bottom of the shower, her knees curled up, drenched from the torrent pouring down around her, mingling with her tears.
My heart breaks for her.
I’ve gone so long not caring about anyone or anything that it catches me completely off guard.
She looks up at me with those big blue eyes, and I drop to my knees, crawling into the shower with her to wrap my arms around her. The water soaks through my clothes instantly, but I don’t care. I pull her against my chest, feeling her body tremble with suppressed sobs.
She clings to me, and I cup the back of her head, letting her cry because that’s what she needs from me. I’m not going to demand she gets up and gives us all the answers to our questions right now. She doesn’t deserve to be interrogated, not when she is dying inside. Subconsciously, I rock her, a soothing motion which makes her sob harder for a while before she settles into the occasional gulp, sniff and choke.
I hold Synthia as the water pours over us both, neither of us caring about the drenched clothes clinging to my body or her nakedness. This isn’t about sex or power. This is about something far more fundamental—comfort in the face of unbearable pain. Tristan and Tarquin hover in the doorway, but I’m not interested in them right now. Synthia needs me.
I try not to think about the last person who needed me, and I wasn’t there for them. My sister, Scarlette, used, abused, drugged, beaten, sold… and I did nothing. Could do nothing. I know that now. I was as powerless as she was in the hands of our father. Locked up at times, beaten, starved. I don’t know where she is now, but I let her down by being weak.
I vowed I would never be weak again and if I can’t make it up to Scarlette, then I can sure as shit do everything in my power to help Synthia. Thanks to Tarquin. If he hadn’t rescued me, I’d probably be dead, and I’d never be able to seek this.
Final absolution.
Maybe if I help reunite this trembling omega with her daughter.
“I’ve tried everything,” she whispers against my chest suddenly. “For two years, I’ve done everything he’s asked. Every payment, every demand. He keeps moving the goalposts.”
I stroke her wet hair, rage building inside me even as I keep my touch gentle. “What’s her name?” I ask softly. “Your daughter.”
Synthia stiffens for a moment, then relaxes. “Amélie,” she breathes, and I feel her heart crack open at just speaking the name. “Her name is Amélie.”
“That’s beautiful,” I murmur.
A fresh wave of pain washes over her.
I tighten my hold on her. “We’re going to get her back, Synthia. Not by paying him off, but by taking her back.”
She pulls away slightly to look up at me, her face streaked with tears and shower water. “How? I don’t know where he is. My investigator can’t track him down?—”
“Mine can,’ Tarquin says quietly.
“He isn’t in the country, I don’t think,” she mutters.
“Doesn’t matter. Give me a name.”
She hesitates.
I brush the wet hair out of her eyes. “You can trust us, Synthia.”
“I can’t. I can’t trust anyone.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, but I understand them. Trust is a luxury she hasn’t been able to afford for a long time.
“Listen to me,” I say, cupping her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. “I know what it’s like to be powerless. To watch someone you love suffer while you can do nothing.”
Something in my voice must reach her because her eyes focus on mine.
“Your daughter needs you to be strong right now. Strong enough to trust us.”
Tristan joins us in the bathroom, kneeling beside the shower. “Syn, please. Let us help you.”
She closes her eyes, water streaming down her face, mingling with her tears. When she opens them again, there’s a fear that nearly kills me.
“If he knows I’ve told anyone?—”
“He won’t know,” Tarquin says, his voice calm and measured. “My people are discreet. He’ll never see us coming.”
I reach past her and shut off the shower. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the steady drip of water from our soaked bodies.
“Jeremy,” she finally says, so quietly I have to strain to hear. “Jeremy Rayne.”
“He is your… mate?” Tarquin croaks. I’ve never heard him sound so unsure of himself before. I’d find it amusing if this situation weren’t so heartbreaking.
Syn’s head snaps up, her eyes wide. “No. We never… I…”
I take her hand. “You can tell us. We are in no position to judge anyone.”
Her features soften. “I ran away from home when I was sixteen. My parents were… neglectful. Not abusive, just apathetic to my existence. I figured I’d cut my losses. That was mistake number one. Jeremy found me one day not long after I’d left and was living on the street. He was handsome, charming, older than me and well-spoken. He bought me a coffee and a sandwich instead of giving me money. I thought he was so kind and thoughtful.
“He took me in,” Synthia continues, her voice hollow. “Gave me a place to stay, clothes, food. He was gentle at first, patient. I thought I’d found someone who genuinely cared about me.”
I feel my jaw tighten as I already know where this is headed. Beside me, Tristan’s scent shifts, turning acrid with anger.
“By the time I realised what was happening, that he was grooming me, it was too late. I was pregnant with Amélie, with no money and nowhere to go. He’d isolated me completely. No friends, nothing. He controlled everything—my money, my schedule, even what I wore.” She takes a shuddering breath.
“Why did he take her?” I ask, needing to know so I can determine how much pain I’m going to make him suffer and for how long before Tarquin kills him.
“She was growing bigger, hungrier. He gave me money for the shopping, exact amounts. If the price had gone up on something, I had to scramble to find alternatives. I ran out of formula because she was drinking more. She was a picky eater and wouldn’t eat much solid food, even by one. I tried to get her to eat, but she just kept screaming for her bottle. He was asleep on the couch, ignoring all of this, and I took a risk. I went into his wallet to steal the money so I could feed her something. He woke up and hit me in a rage, knocked me out. When I woke up, they were gone.”
“Bastard,” I spit out, my anger flaring like white-hot shards of glass in my blood.
Tristan’s hand tightens on the edge of the shower door until his knuckles turn white. “And then he started extorting you.”
Synthia nods, her wet hair plastered to her pale face. “A week later, I got a message with a photo of Amélie and his bank details. Said if I wanted to see her again, I needed to start paying. I’d already gone to the police, but they couldn’t—wouldn’t—help. Said there was no evidence he’d taken her against her will, that he was her father and had every right.”
“He had no right,” I growl, unable to contain the fury building inside me.
“I didn’t have any money,” she continues, her voice distant as if recounting someone else’s nightmare. “I was desperate. I tried everything—loans, jobs, anything to make the payments. Then I discovered I could make good money as an escort. At first, it was just dates, companionship. But the money wasn’t enough. So I... expanded my services.”
I help her stand, water cascading from both of us. Tristan wraps a towel around her shoulders while Tarquin passes one to me.
“Every time I’d save enough for his demands, he’d increase the amount,” she says, clutching the towel. “At first, it was a few hundred here and there. Then it increased to a thousand, then two thousand, then three. It was five last week. Now…”
“Three million,” Tarquin says as I guide her out of the bathroom. “How? How did it escalate into something so monumental? It doesn’t track.”
She sighs. “It was my fault. When you offered me all this money, I thought I could use it as leverage to get him to give her back and leave us alone. I offered him two, and he wanted three.”
“Jesus,” Tarquin says, rubbing his face over his hand. “Fucking hell.”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “I didn’t know. I thought… I thought I could get her back.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault,” I say, helping her sit on the bed. “He is a monster, and he will pay. Whatever is left in his bank account will be returned when we track him down and remove him from this earth.”
She stares at me for the longest time, not saying anything.