Chapter 17
17
T he faint smell of something delicious wafts through the air, waking me—eggs, syrup, and… bacon? My eyes flutter open, my mind sluggish as I try to recall where I am. The couch beneath me is far too comfortable, and the blanket I’ve snuggled into smells like… them. The events of last night catch up—movie, food, and… oh right, assassins with multiple personalities who are most definitely not vampires.
I sit up, stretching as the smell of breakfast grows stronger. My stomach growls loudly, a clear reminder of how hungry I still am, even after last night’s feast. Across the room, Whit stands—shirtless, mind you—at the stove, a spatula in one hand and a frying pan in the other. His broad shoulders shift as he flips something, the sizzle filling the quiet space.
“Morning,” Whit says without turning around. “You slept like a rock, so I figured I’d better get a head start on making up for the lack of meals.”
Before I can respond, Quinn hops over the couch, landing in an easy sprawl at my feet. He yawns through a full-body stretch, lazy and unbothered, but the movement pulls his muscles taut, making the ink shift over his skin. Dark lines coil around his arms—serpents weaving through jagged symbols, their meanings unknown to me. Across his chest, a black dagger plunges downward, its blade fractured by old scars, the hilt curling across his chest in ornate filigree—elegant but unforgiving.
“Must not have thought much of the movie if you conked out before it ended,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.
I turn toward him, narrowing my eyes as he smirks and lifts my feet into his lap—casual, comfortable. Like he wasn’t the same man who threw knives at me.
“I didn’t fall asleep because of the movie,” I shoot back. “I was just tired and finally had a full belly.”
“Sure,” Quinn says, his grin widening. “That’s what they all say.”
Whit glances over his shoulder, giving Quinn a pointed look. “Leave her alone, Quinn. Not everyone wants to sit through hours of explosions and brooding in tights.”
“Or,” Quinn starts, “it’s clearly a subpar Batman. I don’t make the rules.” He looks at me and winks.
The Quinn who dragged the tip of a knife across my skin is not the same Quinn holding my feet in his lap. I think my mind finally broke. Maybe this is all a hallucination.
Beckett steps into the room, his sharp eyes scanning me before flicking toward the stove. “Ignore him,” he says simply. “He’s been insufferable about this ever since Batman Forever came out when we were kids.”
“Because it’s a masterpiece!” Quinn protests, throwing up his hands. “The world just wasn’t ready for it.”
I can’t help but laugh—loud, unguarded, shockingly carefree.
“For the record,” I say, glancing at Whit, “I liked what I saw of the movie. I’ve never been allowed to watch anything like it before, and I’d love to finish it soon.”
Whit smiles, a warm, genuine expression that lights up his face. “Good answer. And we’ll definitely be revisiting that whole strict upbringing thing.” He nods toward the counter. “Sit. Breakfast is almost ready.”
For a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—I forget.
Forget that they’ve kept me captive, terrorized me through the night, left me shivering in nothing but scraps of fabric. Forget that they feasted while I starved.
Forget their hands on my skin.
Until I remember.
The small smile I’d been wearing slowly melts away.
I pull my feet from Quinn’s lap and move toward the kitchen, tightening the blanket around me as I take a seat at the island. It’s not my comforter, but it’s a barrier—thin, but enough. A reminder not to let my guard down.
The smell of eggs and bacon is stronger now, my stomach growling louder this time. Quinn snickers, and I shoot him a glare as he slides onto the stool beside me.
“Don’t start,” I warn, brandishing a butter knife at him. “This is your fault, after all.”
Quinn leans in, letting the tip of the knife press into his throat, his heated gaze locking with mine. “Oh, sweetheart, if you wanted to play with knives, you should have just said so.”
I swallow hard, lowering the blunted utensil as he laughs. That’s a flash of the Quinn I thought I knew. Maybe both versions of him are real. Without his mask, it’s easy to forget how terrifying he can be.
Beckett leans against the counter, arms crossed, shaking his head at Quinn’s antics. He’s the only one who looks like he’s been up for hours already—probably picking out their next person to murder. Or “target,” as they call it.
“I hope you like pancakes,” Whit says, sliding a plate stacked high onto the counter. “Figured even if you didn’t, they had to be better than crackers and peanut butter.”
Right on cue, my stomach growls again.
“I love them, and I think I could eat everything in this kitchen,” I admit, eyeing the stack hungrily—yet again struggling to reconcile who they are.
Pancakes. Murder.
“Good. You’re going to need the energy,” Quinn says, stealing a piece of bacon from the plate.
“For what?” I ask, cursing myself for getting too comfortable. Letting my guard slip.
Whit sets a plate in front of me, his expression serious but kind. Hard to believe he’s the same man who hunted me through the hall of mirrors.
“We’ve still got a lot to show you, and we”—he gestures to the three of them—“have a lot of work to get done today.”
Work.
Right. Murder.
I glance between them, certain they’re hiding something. A strange mix of curiosity and apprehension knots in my chest. It shouldn’t be this easy—sitting here with them, doing something as normal as eating breakfast. It’s dangerous.
I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. But as I take the first bite of pancakes, I decide I don’t care. If this is the only bit of peace I’m going to get, I’m taking full advantage of it.
Every.
Delicious.
Bite.
Once full and with the dishes cleared, I’m more confused than ever. They’re planning something, yet they make it impossible to stay ready for whatever they might throw at me.
Maybe that’s the whole point.
Maybe they get a thrill out of tricking me. Wouldn’t surprise me.
I trade the blanket for a discarded sweatshirt draped over the back of the couch and slide it over my head. It’s huge, hanging lower than the scraps of nothing I’ve been wearing. I sigh, my bare feet padding across the cold floor as I follow the men back into the Batcave.
Now, if only I could get some socks.
The massive space is just as overwhelming the second time as it was the first. At least now, I don’t think they’re planning to eat me for dinner.
Whether or not I’ll get to keep my life? Still up for debate.
“We didn’t get to give you the grand tour last night,” Whit says, striding ahead with easy confidence. “Now, we’ll show you the true heart of the place.”
I nod, rolling up the too-long sleeves of my borrowed sweatshirt. It smells faintly of cedar and leather. If Whit’s smug grin is any indication, it’s his.
It’s warm. He’ll be lucky to get it back.
Honestly, he deserves far worse—never mind that he could take it from me anytime he wanted.
Our first stop is a wide-open space lined with padded mats and an assortment of equipment. Heavy punching bags hang from chains, and a rack of sparring gear sits in one corner.
“This is where we keep ourselves sharp,” Whit says, gesturing to the room. He almost sounds excited for me to see it.
I glance around, fairly certain I know exactly what sharp entails. The thought of how many people he’s killed with his bare hands sends a chill down my spine—especially when I recall the feel of those same rough hands on my skin.
Is it a chill? Or is it a thrill?
What is wrong with me?
The mats are worn, scuffed from countless fights. The punching bags look rock hard, like they’d hurt even with the padded gloves Quinn now holds in his hands.
“You ever thrown a punch, sweetheart?” he asks.
I’ve noticed they like to use monikers for me, as if I’m something special to them—which is impossible. Crazy to even contemplate.
Quinn tosses the gloves into the air, catching them with a grin. I swear I’ve never seen the man without some form of amusement on his face.
Now that I think about it, the expression on his mask suits him.
I shake my head, taking an involuntary step back as my father’s words echo through my mind. Fighting is for men, and men protect women. At least, according to him. The same men meant to protect me were the ones I needed protecting from.
“No. It’s not something I was ever allowed to consider.”
“Well, maybe you should now,” Beckett says from behind me. He sounds genuine. “It’s a skill worth having.”
They’re the first men to suggest I learn to defend myself. Yet again, I find myself struggling to reconcile the masked men with the ones standing in front of me.
What does it mean that I like both versions of them?
Probably that I’m broken. That something is severely wrong with me.
The darkness inside me grins, nodding in agreement. Well, that’s nice. I roll my proverbial eyes at her.
I don’t respond, my gaze darting between the gloves and the bags. They’re right, of course. I should learn to protect myself. And the thought of punching Josiah in the nose if I ever see him again? That fills me with joy.
Yes. I’d like that very much.
The darkness inside me grins wider, her smile turning sharp as a blade. Apparently, she wants to see him hurt as much as I do. Wait— do I? It’s not something I’ve ever let myself consider. Now that I have? Yes. I want to see him suffer.
Immensely.
Shaking the vindictive thoughts from my mind, I follow them into a tucked-away, soundproofed corner—a shooting range. The air smells faintly of gunpowder—or at least, I assume that’s what the acrid scent is. A dizzying array of firearms lines the walls, while targets hang at varying distances, some already riddled with holes.
“This is Beck’s domain,” Quinn says with his signature smirk, nudging me toward the room. “He’s got a bit of a thing for precision.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm, causing even Beckett to quirk a smile.
“You shoot?” Whit asks, his tone curious.
I shake my head again, my brows scrunching. I’m not sure what makes him think I wouldn’t be able to fight, but shooting a gun would be fine. “No, I’ve never even touched a gun.”
Quinn whistles low, leaning against the wall—never standing straight. “Let me guess,” he drawls, eyes gleaming. “Another thing you weren’t allowed to consider?” He stretches out the word, like the very idea offends him.
“Exactly,” I say, nodding.
“Well, that’ll change soon enough,” Whit declares.
“Not today,” Beckett says as he disassembles a gun, then starts cleaning it. “She’s not ready. Maybe after a few good meals, when the recoil won’t knock her on her ass.”
He’s not wrong. I was already too thin when I arrived—stress gnawing at me for weeks before my escape—and after nearly a week of barely eating, I’ve lost even more weight.
Not that it’s my fault.
I glance at the wall of guns and shiver. What if I shoot my foot off or something?
“Don’t worry,” Beckett says like he can read my mind. “First, you’ll learn to handle, disassemble, reassemble, and clean this guy.” He holds up a small handgun, almost comical in his large hands.
I suppose I could manage that.
The darkness inside me makes moon eyes at the gun, practically bouncing at the thought of firing one. She grows more terrifying by the day.
Quinn grabs my hand, practically vibrating as he tugs me toward a side chamber. “Now this ,” he says, grin widening, “is where the real fun happens.”
The space opens into a massive warehouse garage. Sleek cars gleam under bright lights, motorcycles line one wall, and in the far corner…
A helicopter.
My mouth falls open.
“You have a helicopter ?” My voice squeaks slightly. Who just has a helicopter lying around?
Apparently, they do.
Quinn beams. “Technically, we have two, but one’s in the shop.”
“Of course it is,” I mutter. Correction—how silly of me. Two. Because one isn’t enough.
Whit laughs, patting my shoulder at the disbelief I’m sure is written all over my face. “Quinn likes to push the limits. Let’s just say it doesn’t always end well.”
“It was one time!” Quinn protests, flipping him off with both hands. “And the building wasn’t even that damaged.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head as my gaze drifts over the vehicles. “You guys have… twenty-three cars?” I do a quick count. “What could you possibly need that many for?”
“Options,” Beckett replies with a shrug.
Whit chuckles. “And maybe just a little indulgence. This one goes particularly fast.” He pats the hood of a sleek, low-slung car. I know nothing about cars, but most of them look like they’re meant to go much faster than necessary.
Quinn slings an arm around my shoulders—he seems to have an urge to touch me as often as possible. “You know what they say—boys and their toys.”
“Right,” I murmur, looking around again, unable to help but wonder how much all of this costs. More than I can fathom, I’m sure. Killing people must be lucrative.
My stomach twists at the thought of taking money in exchange for someone’s life.
The final space they take me to must be their hub of operations. I caught a glimpse of it last night—a large table dominates the center, covered in maps, blueprints, and photographs. Screens glow faintly along the walls, streaming surveillance footage and data.
Beckett takes his place at the head of the table, his sharp gaze scanning the materials in front of him. Whit moves to one of the screens, brow furrowed in concentration, while Quinn pulls up a chair and starts fiddling with… something. Wires, metal, bits of tech—assuming that’s what it is. To me, it just looks like a mess of scraps.
They all seem to have their roles.
Now that I’m not panicking, I pay closer attention to the monitors.
Oh.
My.
God.
They’ve been watching me this whole time.
Multiple cameras monitor the front lawn, the main entrance, the library, several hallways— and my room.
When I felt eyes on me, this isn’t what I imagined.
Then I see a panel with several buttons labeled: East Wing Halls, Projectors, Great Hall, etc.
“What’s all this?” I ask, gesturing toward the monitors and panel.
“Controls for the house,” Beckett says, his tone distracted.
“Controls?” I repeat, my heart racing. It can’t be.
“Yeah, all the shifting. The guy who built the place was a bit loony and had all these levers that could spin rooms to face new halls or slide halls to access different doors. We just automated everything,” Quinn says with a shrug, smirking as I frown in confusion.
“But the ghosts… and that creepy portrait room!” I protest. They had to be real.
“Digital projections—even that mirror I pulled you through,” Whit says, never taking his eyes off the screen he’s studying.
“So none of it’s real?” I ask, disbelief thick in my voice.
“Nope.” Beckett pops the p, not bothering to look up from the papers in front of him. “The house is our first line of defense if anyone tries to come for us.”
“Is that why you were so convinced I was trying to steal something?” I ask, my brain struggling to process everything.
“Yeah, but after that first night, we knew you weren’t.” Quinn looks up, flashing me one of his grins before laughing at my growing fury. “We checked you out based on the information in your little bag. Funny thing—you, Celest Monroe, don’t actually exist. Didn’t take us long to guess it was some kind of WITSEC.”
“So you used all of that to terrorize me? For what—fun?” My voice shakes with rage. I choose to skip over that last part.
“Well, yeah,” Quinn says, rolling his eyes like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if their behavior is as mundane as a stroll downtown.
Whit and Beckett nod along without really paying attention, too focused on whatever they’re doing.
“Let me get this straight—you thought terrorizing a stranded woman, starving her, and making her believe the house she’s trapped in is haunted was just a good time?” My voice rises, sharp enough to make them flinch. A small flicker of satisfaction sparks in my chest.
“Yes? Well, not the starving part—obviously, we fucked up there—but you can’t pretend you didn’t enjoy our little game.” Quinn flashes me a wicked smile, full of dark promises.
My face heats. I look away.
Because he’s right.
On some level, I did enjoy it.
But I won’t tell them that.
“If you’re finished, we’ve got work to do,” Beckett says, tone curt, completely disregarding my concerns. “Try not to touch anything.”
Like I’m a child. Like I’m going to wreak havoc.
I stare at him in disbelief. Two sentences. That’s all it takes to shove me right back into that comforter upstairs, small and powerless.
It hurts.
Which is incredibly annoying.
I hover awkwardly at the edge of the room, watching as they fall into a practiced rhythm, feeling out of place. They know each other well enough that they have more silent conversations than spoken ones. The way they work together is almost mesmerizing, but the chaos on the table makes my hands itch.
It’s beyond disorganized—the kind of mess that would have driven the Covenant’s planners insane. And it’s something I’m extremely well-versed in handling. I’m surprised Beckett can stand it after seeing his room.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I step closer to the table. My fingers hover over a stack of files, hesitating for only a moment. “I can help,” I say, my voice quiet but confident.
Beckett looks up, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if the thought of me being capable of helping is beyond belief. The doubt in his expression fuels my irritation, sharpening my resolve. I’ll show him exactly how capable I am.
“How?”
I take a deep breath. “I went to the Covenant’s college and earned a degree in… well, that’s not important. What matters is that I was trained to organize—mostly events, but it’s more than that. I can look at all this—” I gesture toward the table, where maps and files lay scattered in disarray. “—and make sense of it. I can spot patterns, identify connections, and find the most efficient way to structure anything.”
Whit turns away from the screen, curiosity flickering in his expression. “What other secret skills are you hiding?”
“Well, for the role I was meant to fulfill, I had to master the art of reading people,” I continue, my words tumbling out now. “I learned how to blend in, how to ask the right questions to gather information without anyone noticing—especially in social settings.”
Quinn lets out a low whistle. “Well, damn. What exactly was this role you were meant to fulfill?”
“I—um… I don’t really want to talk about it right now,” I whisper, lowering my gaze.
Beckett studies me for a long moment before I lift my gaze and meet his. He nods once. “Show us.”
I dive in, grateful they don’t push, and begin sorting the files into logical piles while flagging inconsistencies in their notes. Then, turning to the maps, I align points with the corresponding data streaming across the screens. My training takes over instinctively, and for the first time since arriving, I feel on solid ground, letting the work consume me. I relish the distraction.
By the time I finish, the table is orderly, the gaps in their plans filled, and the tension in the room subtly altered. Whit regards me with something like respect, and even Beckett’s usual stoicism softens. I’m accustomed to being underestimated, but there’s a particular satisfaction in proving people wrong.
“You’ve got a good eye,” Beckett says simply, and I can’t help but smile.
“Welcome to the team,” Quinn adds with a wink.
And then I realize—I just became an accessory to murder.