43. Tarquin
43
TARQUIN
The storm wraps around us like a cloak, an omen which I try to ignore. I guide the vehicle down the road, which sits at the back of the property, with a field in between. Chances are he won’t see us coming unless he has eyes everywhere. Try as he might to live the lavish lifestyle he is trying to portray, his funds are limited. Through the windscreen, Jeremy Rayne’s estate looms against the darkened sky. It’s a converted, small-scale manor house with pretensions of grandeur that fall short of true sophistication.
Beside me, Declan checks his weapon, movements economical and precise. In the back seat, Tristan murmurs reassurances to Synthia, whose scent betrays her anxiety despite her composed exterior.
“Remember,” I say, voice low as I bring the car to a stop. “Tristan and Synthia remain here until we secure the premises and locate Amélie.”
“And if something goes wrong?” Synthia asks, the tremor in her voice is barely contained.
I meet her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Nothing will go wrong.”
It’s a promise I cannot guarantee, yet I make it anyway. The fear of failing her sits like ice in my stomach, a foreign sensation for a man accustomed to absolute confidence. This mission cannot fail. I cannot fail her.
We exit silently, the mist dampening our footsteps as Declan and I retrieve our equipment from the boot. Dark tactical clothing, communication devices, the tools of breaking and entering that I never imagined would become necessary in my life. Wealth has always opened doors for me; I’ve never needed to breach them. Myself, anyway.
“Twenty minutes,” I tell Tristan, handing him an earpiece. “If you haven’t heard from us by then, take Synthia and leave. Contact St. Clare and only St. Clare.”
He nods, understanding the gravity behind my instructions. St. Clare may be IPP, but he’s invested in our success, and in covering up any necessary unpleasantness.
I turn to Synthia, allowing myself one moment of connection before the mission takes over. “We’ll bring her to you,” I say, my hand briefly touching her cheek.
She leans into the contact. “Be careful. All of you.”
With a final nod to Tristan, I turn and follow Declan into the darkness, leaving the warmth of her touch behind.
We move in tandem through the field, on the lookout for any passive security measures. The rain has picked up, a steady drizzle that plasters my shirt to my skin but further obscures our approach.
We move around the perimeter of the property to the gate at the back that Malcolm’s surveillance picked up. It leads directly to this field, built into the wall and padlocked.
Declan gets to work, pulling out his lockpicking set. He is skilled in his area, due to his years of learning how to unpick the locks of the room his father kept him in with any tool going. He is surprisingly quick, and soon, the gate is open. He slips inside first, looking left and right.
“Clear,” Declan whispers, motioning for me to enter the grounds.
I follow, closing the gate silently behind me. We pause, listening intently for any sign of movement.
Nothing but the rain.
The plan is to breach the back door, but we have to get there first. Creeping along the garden, I contemplate how my life came to this.
Not that I would change it, but I’ve always tried to maintain as little drama in my life as possible since mum was killed. Now, it has flooded in and taken over. All because of an omega whose purr I needed, and whose scent hit me in the soul the second I inhaled it into my lungs.
We reach the back door, and Declan tries the handle with a wicked smirk. When it doesn’t budge, he chuckles. “Had to try,” he murmurs and sets about picking the next lock.
Within seconds, we are inside. It sits uneasily on my chest. So far, this has been easy. There again, was Jeremy really expecting people to break into his home and kidnap his daughter? He knew Syn didn’t have the money, nor the know-how to plan anything like this. It works in our favour, but I still don’t trust it.
We move through the house quietly, the floor plan that Malcolm had procured imprinted into my memory.
As we approach the entrance hall, I hear footsteps. Declan freezes, hand moving to the knife at his hip. I raise a finger, listening intently to identify the source.
The footsteps grow louder—a single person, heavy tread. The security guard. Declan and I exchange a glance and hold still.
The guard appears seconds later, middle-aged and overweight, holding a mobile phone that he laughs at quietly.
Clearly, he isn’t up for this job, but he is still in our way. Declan and I exchange an eye roll, and he moves first. Before the guard can react, Declan’s arm locks around his throat in a tight hold. The phone clatters to the carpeted floor, the sound muffled enough that it won’t carry far. The guard struggles briefly, but Declan’s technique is flawless—a chokehold designed to render unconscious rather than kill. This poor idiot isn’t the enemy, just a paid lackey and not really willing to part with his life to defend this house.
Within seconds, the guard goes limp. Declan eases him to the floor, quickly securing his hands and feet with zip ties from his pocket.
“Amateur,” he mutters, removing the guard’s radio and checking for other weapons. “Didn’t even hear us coming.”
Declan drags him into the nearby cloakroom. The entire encounter takes less than a minute—clean, quiet, and professional. St. Clare and his men will find him, but that’s it. He didn’t see our faces, so he can’t tell anyone what he saw.
“We split here,” I say as Declan returns. “I’ll go for Amélie, you find Rayne.”
His eyes have hardened to something cold and predatory.
We part without further discussion, each focused on our assigned target. I move through the house like a ghost, every sense heightened. The east wing, where we have deduced Amélie’s room is situated, is separated from the main house by a short corridor, likely added during the property’s conversion from a historical manor to a modern residence.
The floor plan we memorised indicated Amélie’s room should be on the second floor, third door on the right. I ascend the stairs silently, pausing at the top to listen for any movement. The wing is quiet, but not uninhabited. But this place is like a tomb otherwise. Cold and unfriendly. Probably the same as my house. I purse my lips and plan to rectify that. I grew up in a museum home, scared to breathe in the wrong direction. I won’t do that to Amélie.
Moving past that door, I continue down the hallway until I reach what should be Amélie’s room. The door is decorated with a painted wooden sign—“Amélie’s Kingdom”—the lettering elegant but impersonal, as if bought rather than created with love.
I test the handle, finding it unlocked. The door opens soundlessly to reveal a child’s bedroom that looks like it was designed by an interior decorator rather than arranged for actual play. Everything matches too perfectly—the pink and white colour scheme, the precisely arranged stuffed animals on the bed, the spotless play area in the corner, and the bed is pristine, untouched, in white cotton bed covers.
I scan the room for any indication of where Amélie might be. The surveillance confirmed she was in the house less than two hours ago. Could Rayne have moved her? Received warning of our approach?
I strain to hear anything, but I can’t even hear Declan beating up Rayne, so where the fuck are they both?
A cold knot forms in my stomach. If Rayne has fled with Amélie...
The thought is interrupted by a faint sound, so soft I nearly miss it. A whimper, quickly stifled, coming from within the room.
I freeze, listening intently. There it is again—a tiny, frightened breath.
Moving methodically, I inspect the room more thoroughly. The wardrobe stands open, clothing visible. Under the bed is clear. The play area contains nothing large enough to hide a child.
Then I notice a bookcase against the far wall that doesn’t quite align with the skirting board. I approach slowly, examining the edges. A seam, nearly invisible but present, runs along one side.
“Amélie?” I call softly, pitching my voice to be gentle and unthreatening. “Amélie, are you there?”
Silence greets me, then the faintest rustling sound from behind the bookcase.
“My name is Tarquin,” I continue, keeping my distance from the hidden door as I wonder what the hell I’m supposed to say. In the end, I stick with the truth, or she will never forgive me. “I’m a friend of your mother’s. Synthia. She sent me to find you.”