52. Finn
FINN
Three months earlier…
“Finn,” Bas said, his voice careful as he sped down the gravel driveway, “you need to prepare yourself…”
I could barely hear him. All I could think of was her.
Nuala.
Guilt itched under my skin over the last time we were together.
Fuck. I should have never let her walk away from me without explaining. Without falling to my fucking knees and begging her to forgive me. If she’d…
No. I’d get my second chance now.
The tires had barely stopped crunching over the gravel before I threw the passenger door open.
“Finn!”
I ignored him. Cold air hit my face as I sprinted across the circular driveway toward the manor.
Steep slate gables clawed at the gray sky above me and turrets rose from either side of the roofline. The place looked less like an academy and more like a haunted manor built to swallow people whole.
This was where Lorcan had brought her.
This was where she’d been waiting for me to come for her.
My boots pounded up the stone steps, my hands grabbing for the door handle. My shoulder slammed against the wood as the front door refused to budge. It was locked.
“Here,” Bas said as he pulled a set of picks from his pocket with practiced efficiency. “Let me—”
Rage surged through me, and I kicked the door with everything I had.
Wood exploded inward with a deafening crack as the lock tore free.
Bas looked from the shattered frame to me. “…or you could do that.”
I ran inside.
“Nuala!” My voice echoed through the cavernous entrance hall.
Silence answered me.
“Nuala!” I tore from room to room, barely registering the polished wood floors, expensive furniture, or chandeliers overhead.
She had to be here.
She had to—
I skidded into the dining room, a large room set up with a table that would have held at least twenty. The table was all laid out, plates and mugs and plates of toast and eggs and fruit.
But the chairs were empty.
A newspaper lay across the head of the table beside a plate holding half a buttered piece of toast, the headline glaring at me.
THE SONS TRAFFICKING RING EXPOSED
Authorities Tracing Girls Sold Through Criminal Network
A mug of coffee still sat beside it, steam curling lazily from the surface.
They had been here minutes ago.
My stomach dropped. “No…”
I backed away from the table before turning and charging upstairs two steps at a time.
“Nuala!”
Door after door flew open beneath my hands.
Empty bedrooms.
No, empty cells.
The last cell waited at the end of the corridor.
Something twisted inside me before I even touched the handle.
I threw the door open.
Her scent of snowdrops and black amber wrapped around me the instant I crossed the threshold.
Nuala.
This had been where they kept her.
I knew it as surely as I knew my own heartbeat.
The bed stood neatly made.
In the open wardrobe, the clothes were gone. Only bare wooden hangers remained, still swaying gently against each other as though someone had stripped them only moments before.
I let out a roar and my fist punched through the wall beside me. I punched again. And again, wood spitting out around me, splinters stabbing into my knuckles.
A hand clasped my shoulder. “Stop.”
Bas.
I half collapsed, my hands coming to my knees as I sucked in air.
Fuck. I couldn’t breathe.
I was too late. I was too fucking late.
They had gone. God knows where.
And they’d taken her with them.
Bas squeezed my shoulder, the only thing grounding me to my sanity. “I’m sorry.”
I glared at him, my lungs burning as I gasped for air. “You knew,” I accused him. “You knew she wouldn’t be here.”
His face fell. “I suspected. But I’d hoped… These people… the delivery location is almost never the final destination.”
Panic closed its cruel hands around my throat. “S-she could be anywhere.”
“We’ll find her. I swear to you.”
I would find her. I’d search every last dark corner of this godforsaken earth until I found her.
I wouldn’t rest until I brought her home.