Chapter 47
Xavier
The room dims as the light begins to fade outside, and darkness fills the space, creeping along the sterile walls, mirroring the growing dread inside me.
I sit by Delilah’s bedside, gripping her hand while watching the fragile rise and fall of her chest. The machines beep in a steady rhythm, a constant reminder of the precarious thread between life and death.
The thought of a world without Delilah is unthinkable, a void so profound it threatens to kill me.
She can’t die.
I won’t fucking let her.
The door opens, and Declan steps into the room. “X,” he begins, his voice low, “how’s she doing?”
“No change,” I reply without taking my eyes off Delilah. Her face is peaceful, belying the ongoing struggle of her heart.
Declan nods and walks over to stand beside me, his presence a silent pillar of support. After a moment, I turn to him, my decision firm despite the anguish that rises at the thought of leaving her.
“I need the donor list.”
His lips thin as he contemplates my demand. “What are you going to do?”
I press a kiss to Delilah’s wrist before gently setting it on the bed. Then I get to my feet and meet his gaze head-on, folding my arms over my chest. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to save her. Give me the list of people who are compatible with Delilah. I’ll handle what comes after.”
When he doesn’t respond readily, I fist my hands to keep from grabbing him by the throat. “I know you have a donor list. Don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”
“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind to do something irrevocable,” he says. “You don’t need to threaten me as well.”
“Then give me what I want. Your family has authorized the harvest of organs to be sold to the highest bidder. Don’t get righteous on me now, not when I’m close to losing the only thing that matters to me.”
Declan sighs. “I’ll give you what you want, but we both know your bride isn’t going to understand.”
“She doesn’t have to understand. She just needs to survive.”
“This goes beyond her being merely your property,” Declan says, tilting his head. “You’ve fallen for her.”
“I’ve done more than fall. I’m on my knees.”
He blinks at me. “Fuck.”
“I know. That’s why I need your help.”
Declan places a reassuring hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. “I’ll be right back.”
After he leaves the room, I sink into the chair beside the bed, my gaze locked on Delilah. She doesn’t look any better, and each minute that ticks by brings her that much closer to death.
The Order lives by its own rules and ascertains its priorities, but tonight, I’m creating mine. I’ll sacrifice whatever and whoever I have to, and the thought isn’t as unsettling as it should be.
A knock sounds at the door, and without a word, June steps inside, followed by Declan. I ignore her and focus on him, taking in the small, rectangular piece of paper in his hand.
“That’s all of them,” he says, handing it to me.
I glance at it quickly.
Five names.
Five addresses.
Five chances to save Delilah.
I look up at him. “Thank you.”
He nods.
“What are you going to do?” June asks, her gaze flickering from me to Delilah.
I don’t look at her, my eyes locked on my little raptor. “What needs to be done.”
“That’s unethical. X, you can’t kill those people.”
I turn to her, my expression devoid of emotion. Except rage at her trying to persuade me not to save my girl. “Watch me.”
June’s face pales and her eyes widen. “But—”
“It’s the only way,” Declan cuts in, his voice calm and even.
She spins to face him. “There’s always another way.”
“Maybe,” he replies, “but she doesn’t have the time. At least none that X is willing to risk.”
June frowns, the crease in her forehead deepening. I dismiss her, turning my attention to Declan when he says to me, “I’m surprised you’re not offering yourself as tribute.”
“I’d rip my heart out of my fucking chest if it meant she’d live,” I say. “But then who would protect her if I’m dead? I won’t leave her alone.”
“Fair.”
“How do I do this properly to ensure the organ remains viable?”
Declan shrugs. “When you kill them, aim for the head. Not the chest.”
“No fucking shit.”
He squints in concentration, his expression serious. “Generally speaking, the heart must be harvested and cooled within four to six hours after death to remain suitable for transplantation. Is that better?”
I nod. “Four hours is plenty of time.”
“Good luck,” Declan says with a wry grin. I turn to leave, but his voice stops me. “I have the initiation ceremony tonight, but I’ll come here afterward. I’ve told the staff about the upcoming transplant, and the entire surgical team will be waiting for you to arrive.”
“No questions asked?”
Declan shakes his head. “They won’t say a fucking thing if they want to keep breathing.”
“Listen, you don’t have to come back here,” I say. “I don’t want to draw attention to your absence. It’ll raise questions.”
“Maybe.”
I lift a brow. “Maybe? My father is going to slaughter everyone to get to me.”
“What did you do?”
“I’ll explain when this is over.”
Declan nods. “There’s a black jeep outside for you. Happy hunting, crow. Mors solum initium.”
“Mors solum initium.”
I glance at the first name on the list. Declan, the sick fuck, drew a smiley face next to it. Either this guy is the most promising donor or he’s a motherfucking asshole. Or both.
Nicholas Crenshaw at 3236 E. Pinewood Road.
Here we fucking go.
The drive to his house is quick and quiet, the evening still and the moon a crescent sliver in the night sky.
I park the SUV down the street and cut the engine, staring at the two-story house with its wide, manicured lawn and large bay windows.
There’s a Mercedes in the driveway, and soft lights from the living room filter through the front curtains, illuminating a section of the sidewalk.
I put my mask on, embodying more than an assassin. Tonight, I’m the Grim Reaper.
The second the driver’s door shuts behind me, a chill wind sweeps through the yard, and the streetlight overhead flickers.
A bird caws, the sound eerie, and my skin prickles with anticipation.
It’s an omen, a foreshadowing of what’s to come.
Of the rules I’m about to break. And the life I’m about to take.
To save another.
The back porch light comes on, bathing the steps in a warm glow. As I walk, my boots crunch on the gravel, the only sound other than the rustle of leaves. Everything else is still, even the air.
When I reach the back door, my pulse quickens. With a quick glance, I scan the yard and the side of the house, but there’s no one, no movement other than the swaying branches. The darkness is empty.
The feeling of unease doesn’t abate, and as I stare at the wooden surface before me, a sense of wrongness fills my veins. It’s a sick dread that has nothing to do with the task at hand. I don’t dismiss the feeling. I embrace it. My instincts have kept me alive, and I will always listen to them.
The door is locked. No surprise there. I’m quick to pick the locks before twisting the doorknob and stepping inside, my pistol in my hand.
Declan not only provided me with transportation, but he also made sure I was equipped with some ammunition.
I suspect he did it out of friendship, but also because I helped get him through the last Trial.
The inside of the house is cool and quiet. Not the silence that follows a storm, but rather a stillness that speaks of an absence of sound, an unnerving emptiness.
There’s no one downstairs.
No one is upstairs either.
Fuck.
I’ve searched the entire house and found nothing. Every second I’m here increases the chances of getting caught, which is something I can’t afford.
A loud clap of thunder makes me stiffen. Or is it a gunshot?
It’s the latter, followed by a muffled scream.
I’m running, heading straight for the source of the sound. Downstairs. The basement.
I open the door and the faint light spills onto the hardwood floor. As I descend the steps, the voices become clearer.
“Where is she?!”
“I don’t know.”
Another shot echoes in the basement.
“Please, I don’t know where she is!”
I pause at the bottom, and the sight that greets me sends a jolt of shock down my spine. A middle-aged woman, her dark hair a mess and her pale skin stained with dirt and blood, stands in the middle of the room. Across from her is a man of about the same age holding a firearm pointed at her chest.
“You know where she is!” the man screams, spittle flying from his mouth. “She’s only a child. She couldn’t have gotten away without help.” He lifts the gun higher, aiming it at the woman’s head. “Tell me where she is, or I’m going to kill you and end up finding her anyway.”
“You’ll never touch her again, so just kill me now.”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he asks. “Well, I’m not going to make this quick. I’m going to make it fucking painful.”
He lowers the gun and points it at her leg.
I pull the trigger. The man drops, the shot a clean kill, the bullet right in the skull. The woman screams and spins to face me.
I make a motion for silence. “Don’t do that. I’m not here for you.”
“Who are you?” she asks, her voice wavering.
“Someone who doesn’t want you dead.”
The woman holds out her hands as if to warn me away. “What do you want?”
“Him.” I jerk my chin at the man’s body.
“You’re not here to take my daughter?”
I shake my head, lowering my gun.
She frowns. “Are you part of the trafficking ring?”
I ignore her and walk over to the corpse, grabbing him by the legs. He’s not too heavy, but he’s certainly not light.
“Let me help you,” she says.
I turn to her. “Why are you offering?”
“Because I’m grateful.”
“I didn’t do this for you. It’s to save someone else.”
She nods in understanding. “Well, you saved two lives tonight.”
I watch her, gauging her sincerity. Her eyes are clear, no indication of deception as she bends down to grip the man’s wrists. Together, we drag the body upstairs. The process is steady, and though she’s obviously exhausted, the woman doesn’t complain or struggle.
After I pull the SUV into the driveway, she leans against the car, her features strained. “Why are you taking him?”
“Do you really want to know?”
She looks me over, her gaze assessing. “No.”
“Smart.”
“Whatever your reasons, I appreciate it,” she says.
“Thank me when you get to see your daughter again,” I reply, opening the back door.
“I will.”
Without another word, I load the body in the SUV and slam the door. Before getting in the driver’s seat, I turn back to her. “Your daughter is lucky to have a mother who cares.”
She nods before giving me a tentative smile.
I keep my gaze on the rearview mirror as I back out. The woman stands there, a small, proud figure against the backdrop of the house. I don’t feel an ounce of remorse, but there’s a rightness in my soul.
Nicholas Crenshaw deserved to die.
Almost as much as Delilah deserves to live.