Chapter 2 Wolfe
WOLFE
The screen was still lit.
Her message waited, bright and raw. A photo of drywall—cracked at the edges, smeared faintly with dust. A panel. A hiding place. Something secret and small, made sacred by what it held.
If you want it, come get it. Please.
No punctuation. Just that word.
Please.
It sat like an open wound.
My thumb hovered over the screen, unmoving. A pulse ticked through my jaw—tight, sharp. It wasn’t rage or grief. It was something older. Deeper. The tension I’d trained into silence. The kind you learn when you're taught softness gets you killed.
A twitch in the corner of my mouth tried to form something. It wasn’t a smile. It was the barest flicker of something mechanical. The echo of violence. Of purpose. The memory of hands wrapped around throats that lied. Of knives held steady while a man begged and I didn’t blink.
I zoomed in.
Not on the wall.
On the fibers.
The photo showed more than drywall. More than betrayal. It showed her. The shirt she’d used to wrap the ledger—mine. Black. Thick. Familiar. The same one I left draped over the back of the chair after my workout.
She didn’t just take the book.
She wrapped it in me.
And that’s when it hit. Not heat. Not fury. Not the fire that came later.
This was colder.
Steel-edged.
Final.
I stared at the screen and let the seconds bleed.
Thirty-eight, exactly. Because I counted.
Because that’s how long it took to kill the version of her I kept alive in my head.
The girl who came back with shaking hands and blood on her skin.
Who looked at me like I was the only thing anchoring her to this world.
Who slipped, because she was scared—but stayed because she loved me.
That girl was gone.
What she left behind was calculated. Cruel. Composed.
She didn’t scream. Didn’t rage. Didn’t accuse me of anything I wasn’t. She just left the ring on the dresser like it was a receipt. Like I was a transaction. And then she touched the only thing I told her never to go near.
Legacy.
She went back to the beginning.
To the place where everything that mattered was born in blood and bound by oath.
I blinked once. Let it settle. She sent this message not to be saved. She wanted to be punished. I gave her rules. She gave me blood. I gave her safety. She gave them war.
Now? She could have both.
Barron’s name flashed across the screen. Calling. Not the first time. Probably not the last. I didn’t answer. Royal’s message followed like a demand wrapped in arrogance: Where the fuck is she?
I gripped my cell, thumb pressed against the button. I thought about turning the damn thing off…then thought better of it.
So I ignored the message.
Their noise didn’t matter. Their rage didn’t reach me. Because this wasn’t about them anymore. This was about her.
The girl who ran without a scream. Who didn’t leave a letter. Who didn’t throw a tantrum or stage some final act of drama. No begging. No tears. Just silence—and the book she wasn’t meant to touch.
I stood up, slow and steady. The air around me didn’t move, but everything inside me did.
I walked to the drawer.
Opened it.
The ring was still there, tucked neatly in the darkness. Silver. Cold. Shaped by her fingers—narrow, delicate, deceitful. I stared at it like it could confess. Like it might tell me what part of her decided I wasn’t worth the truth.
She used to twist it when she was nervous. Rub her thumb along the inside like it burned. It did. Because it belonged to me.
She wore it anyway. Until she didn’t. Until she laid it down like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
I didn’t speak her name. Didn’t break anything. Didn’t bleed for her. The rage didn’t look like rage. It looked like this. Silence that hummed like electricity in my spine. A stillness that knew what to do.
No panic. No pain.
Just decisions.
Beep.
I snarled and looked down expecting a message from Loyal this time. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t even a damn text. No message. No call. Just a pin without a message, or even a timestamp.
But I knew it was her.
I knew it like I knew my own fucking blood. I stared at that pin like it had teeth. Like it might bite if I blinked.
The chill started in my chest. Spread slow, like ice cracking through bone. I didn’t speak. Didn’t think. I just moved.
Left the apartment. Left the discarded ring on the counter, catching the light like a curse. Pressed the elevator button with the heel of my hand and reached into my pocket, keys cold against my fingers.
By the time the elevator doors slid open, I’d checked the fucking location five times. Like maybe if I looked hard enough, she’d appear on the map. Breathing. Bleeding.
Alive.
I crossed the lobby fast. The glass doors hissed open, and I strode into the night like I’d been summoned.
The Audi waited at the curb—sleek, black, hungry. I unlocked it with a snap of my wrist, slid in, and punched the ignition.
The engine roared. Tires screamed as I peeled out, taking the corner hard, cutting through the city like a blade.
I didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Just followed her. Her pin. That fucking pin.
You better be there, Cloe.
You better still be breathing.
You better still be mine.
Downtown faded in the rearview. The neon. The noise. Gone. What was left was rot. Silence. The kind of quiet that said something bad had already happened—and worse was waiting.
I turned off the main road, following the blinking dot on the screen. It led me through cracked lanes and warehouse alleys, places even the rats had given up on.
My headlights carved through the dark—
Bouncing off broken chain-link fences. Catching in the glass eyes of trash-strewn gutters. Splashing against overflowing dumpsters sagging under their own stink.
I slowed when I reached the end of the pin. The alley was narrow. Filthy. Dead fucking silent. The car idled as I scanned the shadows. Nothing at first—just puddles reflecting the sky like oil-slicked mirrors. Then the beam of my headlights cut right.
And I saw it.
A foot.
Small.
Covered by a single white sock soaked through at the toe—grimy, wet, clinging to skin like it didn’t belong there.
The other was missing. Just one sock. One foot. One horrifying moment of stillness. Half-hidden behind the dumpster. Pale against the alley floor.
I slammed the car into park. The door was open before the engine stopped ticking. I moved like I’d been shot—sharp, fast, all instinct.
Because I knew.
God, I knew.
One look. One fucking look and I knew.
It was her.
Even from here. Even twisted like that, half-curled in the dark, my hoodie clinging to her like a second skin.
Cloe.
The blood had soaked into the sleeves. Smeared her legs. Matted her hair to her temple. Her cheek was pressed to the concrete. Her arm bent under her in a way that made my stomach twist.
I didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even whisper her name. I just dropped to my knees and reached for her. Because she didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
But her skin—
Still warm.
Faint. Fading.
Clinging to her like a secret she hadn’t told anyone else.
“Cloe,” I breathed, touching the side of her throat. Her pulse fluttered against my fingers. Shallow. Weak. “Baby…”
But there. She stirred—barely—and her mouth opened. Just a little. And then I heard it.
My name.
Barely audible.
“Wolfe…”
The sound cracked something in me I didn’t know could still break. I gathered her into my arms, gentle as I could while rage churned beneath my skin like a storm begging to be free.
Her blood soaked into my hoodie—my blood now. She sent me a pin. Not because she had the strength to fight. Not because she thought she’d win. Because she knew I’d come. And now? Now someone was going to pay.
Didn’t open her eyes. But her fingers moved. A fraction. A flicker. Recognition. I didn’t speak either. There was nothing to say. No words could matter here. Felt the heat of her leaking through my coat as I stood.
I didn’t look around. Didn’t check who saw. Didn’t care. My arms were full of betrayal. And blood. And her. And that meant I had enough.
The book would have to wait.
I carried her to the car without speaking. The streets didn’t stop me. The air didn’t shift. No one asked what I was doing. They didn’t need to. They saw my face. And they stepped back into their shadows.
The car door opened with the hush of leather and steel. I lowered her into the back seat like I was laying her into a tomb.
The hoodie clung to her—wet, twisted, red at the hem. The blood had seeped all the way through. Not just hers. Mine. Ours. It stained the places where we once touched, where she once leaned into me, asking nothing.
I covered her legs with my coat. Because if anyone looked into that car, they would not see her broken. They would not see her bruised. They would see a woman protected.
Owned.
Marked.
I drove. Didn’t check the rearview mirror. Didn’t look at her reflection. Didn’t need to. I could feel it. She was still warm. And she was still mine.
The clinic knew better than to ask questions. No nurses. No waiting. No signing in. Just concrete and tile and silence.
I walked through the back, her body limp in my arms. She didn't stir. Not even a whimper. The receptionist looked up—then down, immediately. Her face went pale.
They had a room ready. I laid her on the bed. Her breath hitched once when her back hit the sheets, but her eyes stayed shut.
I didn’t move. Just stood there. Watching. Her chest rose in shallow, stuttering pulls. Each breath like a cost she hadn’t budgeted for.
The doctor entered a moment later, gloves already snapped tight. He opened his mouth. I turned to him—slowly. He closed it.
I didn’t need words. My silence said enough. You touch her wrong—you die. You ask the wrong question—you bleed. You breathe too loud—you get fucking replaced. Got it?
At first, my fingers refused to let her go. Even after the nurse said they needed to examine her.