Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Damien
She was on that balcony with her wolf when I crept up to the treeline, tension coiling through her body like a loaded spring.
I could have watched her all night, but then her wolf sensed me, his growl rattling the air.
I should have melted back into the shadows and used the trees for cover, but my mask concealed my face, so I stood my ground.
I’m not sure why I wore it tonight. Did part of me hope she would see me?
And she did. The way her body froze, her eyes locked on the spot where I stood… Fuck! The air itself seemed to vibrate with her panic. Dark, twisted satisfaction pounded in my chest, stirring my cock to life.
I wanted to step out of the trees and let her see all of me, but she’s not ready for that yet. Neither am I. I need more of that beautiful terror first. It will make her surrender that much sweeter when it comes.
So, I backed away, leaving her to wonder if I was real or just another shadow in her mind.
Now, I’m tucked in an alleyway between two buildings, out of sight, observing every detail of the Broken Antler Bar’s exterior, including Daryl Rawlings’ shitty old F-150 pickup parked out front.
The rundown bar is a testament to small-town desperation. A weathered wooden exterior with neon signs, their erratic flickering casting fragmented shadows across the parking lot. The kind of place where secrets fester just beneath the surface.
Athena lies beside me, her muscled frame resting in the passenger seat, her dark eyes locked on me. Her breathing is slow and controlled. She understands the art of waiting, often acting as my co-pilot on nights like these. Her presence calms me, centers me, and reminds me why I do this.
My hand strokes her head, my touch gentle. My fingers trace the scars along her neck. With Athena, the monster in me goes quiet.
She nudges my hand, her warm brown eyes looking up with a mixture of loyalty and understanding that no human could comprehend.
My phone vibrates on the console between the seats. I press the steering wheel button, and Cade’s face appears on the dashboard screen.
He sits rigid behind his office desk, that military bearing locked into his spine even after all these years. Again, he’s traded his business suit for dark fatigues, ready to clean up and dispose of whatever mess I leave behind.
“Everything all set?”
“Yes, he’s been inside for hours. I’m ready when he comes out.”
Cade nods, understanding implicit in his movement. He knows the drill. It’s always the same. I never deviate from my routine. It’s how I’ve kept my actions concealed for two and a half decades.
“I’m heading to the chopper in thirty. I’ll meet you at your place.”
“I thought you said it’s too loud for this late at night.”
A rare smile curves his lips. “New toy. A contact at the DOD pointed me to the manufacturer. Covert Flight Systems. They’re letting us test it, see if it fits our needs. We like it, they’ll custom build one for us.”
“Two days and you’ve got military-grade stealth tech?”
“I have my ways.”
“Do I want to know the price tag?”
“Nope. All you need to know is we can make an almost silent approach to your estate.”
“Good. Let me know what you think of it.”
“I’ll leave it at the house. You can fly it back to Denver yourself tomorrow.”
Silence stretches between us while my fingers work through Athena’s fur. She leans into the touch, content.
A war plays out behind Cade’s eyes for almost a full minute.
“You want to spit out what’s eating you? You’re fucking with my focus.”
“Damien…” His tone is part warning, part concern. “I’m getting—”
“What? You saw what this bastard did.”
This one is personal. He knows why.
“I wasn’t going to say anything about Daryl Rawlings. He’s earned what’s coming to him.”
“Then spit it out already. Since when do you hold your tongue?”
“Dr. Luna Foster.”
Her name is all he needs to say.
“Don’t fucking start with me, Cade.”
“I know you’ve been watching her.”
“I said, don’t start.”
A heavy silence settles between us, the tension growing thicker. “This isn’t like you. Should I be worried?”
“No.”
He nods, but doubt flickers behind his eyes. “Fine. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
His image vanishes, and now I’m just fucking pissed. How dare he question me about Luna? What I do in my personal life is my own business. His concern is well-intentioned, but it doesn’t fucking matter.
It won’t change the fact that Luna Foster is mine.
It’s almost midnight when the last of the bar’s stragglers stumble out, including Rawlings. To my surprise, he’s a functioning drunk. The kind of intoxication that lowers inhibitions while maintaining just enough control to be dangerous.
He gets into his truck and pulls out of the parking lot. I follow at a distance, close enough to see but far enough to remain unseen.
The Range Rover’s engine is a whisper as I drive with my headlights off. The night vision goggles paint the world in shades of phosphorescent green. Fish Creek Road stretches before us, Rawlings swerving in only the way a drunk can.
This fucker better make it home alive because I won’t be denied the pleasure of his death.
My hands are steady on the steering wheel as Rawlings almost misses the turn into his long dirt driveway. Having staked out the place earlier when he was drowning in his pathetic existence at the bar, I know there is a small turnout tucked off to the left side of the driveway about halfway up.
Perfect for my purposes.
I park and reach for my gloves, then my mask. As soon as the cool metal slides over my face, the transformation is immediate. Damien Wolfe, respected billionaire CEO, ceases to exist. In his place, something ancient and predatory. A creature of shadow and purpose.
I pet Athena and get out, striding the last few hundred feet up the driveway. Rawlings stumbles from his truck toward the porch, fumbling with his keys and muttering to himself.
He reaches his front door. As he grasps the doorknob, I step up behind him and clamp my right hand over his mouth as my left arm wraps around his neck.
The chokehold restricts the blood flow to his brain, compressing his carotid artery and jugular.
Just the right pressure is all it takes to obstruct his airway, cutting off his oxygen.
I want to snap his neck and fucking kill him right here, but he needs to suffer for what he’s done. A quick death is too good for him.
He struggles in my grasp, with muffled shouts against my hand, but it’s pointless, futile, because I’m much larger and stronger. He claws at my arm, trying to create space to breathe, but I don’t ease up.
It takes ten seconds for his struggles to weaken. Another three for his fingers on my forearm to loosen. Another four until his body goes limp.
Seventeen seconds was all it took to render this piece of shit insentient.
I lift him, tossing him over my shoulder.
He smells rancid, like booze and body odor, and I want to gag.
I load his body into the back of the Range Rover, zip-tying his wrists and ankles and duct-taping his mouth.
Athena looks back at me from the passenger seat, a low growl emanating from her chunky body.
“I know, girl. You can sense evil as well as I do.”
I leave no trace evidence of myself or what happened here. No drag marks. No signs of a struggle in the dirt driveway. Just boot marks that could belong to anyone.
I remove my gloves and climb into the front seat, tossing them to the floor before rubbing Athena’s head. I remove my mask and set it on the seat beside her, inhaling a deep breath.
It’s just shy of 1 AM.
It takes almost forty minutes to drive to the Morrison estate. I should probably start calling it the Wolfe estate, but it isn’t a home. It’s a place to take care of my brutal business.
Five hundred secluded acres of forest.
With no neighbors.
And no witnesses.
Rawlings lies spread-eagled on the steel table, stripped bare except for his boxers and socks. I rarely strip my prey, but his stench was so foul I ripped everything off. As it turns out, the odor was all him. Removing his clothes didn’t help.
My favorite torture implements line the workbench—knives, needle-nose pliers, a ball-peen hammer, and my mini blowtorch. And a rusty tire iron, courtesy of Rawlings. It will be my most useful tool tonight.
I thrust smelling salts under his nose. His body jolts, and his eyes snap open. He blinks, confusion flaring to terror as he registers the restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. He strains against the bonds, grunting, but the straps hold firm.
I move around the table, my pace unhurried.
Rawlings’ eyes follow me, wide and wild with terror, fear pouring off him like heat.
My boots scrape against the stained concrete, each step reminding him I’m here, even when out of his line of sight.
I rip the duct tape from his face, taking strips of his stubbled skin and a howl of pain with it.
Wet crimson streaks run down his cheeks.
My blood pounds and my body hums with excitement.
“Please… I don’t know what—”
“Shut the fuck up!”
My fist connects with the right side of his jaw. A sharp crack echoes in the room as his head snaps sideways, his scream ricocheting off the stone walls.
The smell of piss fills the basement, mingling with the sharp, burning scent of bleach, searing my nostrils. I sneer at the wet spot spreading across his dirty underwear, his fear and desperation laid bare.
They all do this when the terror takes hold.
I continue my slow, stalking movement. My unhurried demeanor amplifies their fear because they have no idea how long I plan to torture them.
Taking my time is part of my ritual. It’s what brings me pleasure.
Sometimes it turns into an all-night event, which is hard on Cade because he has to postpone disposing of the body until the next night. But I refuse to be rushed.