Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
Summer returned to Le Sang at dawn with the dying hybrid’s words echoing in her mind: Le Sang…
basement… wolf… silver… The mansion looked exactly as she’d left it—elegant, peaceful, the perfect sanctuary for a woman seeking refuge from supernatural chaos.
But now she saw it for what it truly was: a fa?ade concealing systematic torture.
The main floors were quiet, Vincent and Fabian apparently resting during daylight hours Although Fabian could function in daylight, the effort cost him dearly and he preferred to rest when he could.
Summer crept through the corridors, ears pricked and her medical bag packed for emergencies.
The dying woman’s whispers mentioned the basement, but no directions to Le Sang’s secret areas.
Summer knew she would have to rely on her Le Voile magic.
Feeling herself pulled toward the kitchen, Summer tiptoed through the empty work area, at the back beside the fire exit she found a service elevator, but it was protected with a keypad.
She closed her eyes, and then half opened them.
Some of the numbers were more worn than others, and she raised the pointer finger of her right hand over the pad.
Once again she closed her eyes and allowed her finger to take charge and enter the code.
There was a click and the elevator doors slid open.
She hit ‘B’ and leaned against the cool metal wall of the cabin.
The basement levels were a stark contrast to the mansion’s elegant fa?ade.
Here, clinical efficiency replaced old-world charm.
Fluorescent lights illuminated corridors lined with security doors, each marked with alphanumeric codes suggestive of systematic organization.
The air smelled of antiseptic, silver, and something which made her supernatural senses recoil—fear so thick it seemed to coat the walls.
Summer slid through the underground complex with growing horror.
Her palms were on fire, and she pressed them against her thighs to quell the flames.
The mating scar pulsed but on touching it she found it was still chilled; her hopes were torn.
This place wasn’t just a prison, but appeared to be a sophisticated research facility, designed for methodical supernatural experimentation.
It had a haunting similarity to the other facility she’d found.
Here too, medical equipment lined the walls—IV stands, monitoring devices, surgical tables equipped with restraints.
Everything was clean, organized, professional. She had to find her wolf.
The first secured room she found, contained three large filing cabinets filled with meticulous documentation.
Summer photographed page after page of records: capture dates, subject classifications, experimental procedures, final dispositions.
The Vatican letterhead on official correspondence confirmed what she’d always suspected—this was a joint operation between vampires and the church.
Fabian’s signature appeared on dozens of documents. Transfer authorizations, experimental approvals, progress reports to Vatican officials. Not the reluctant cooperation of someone forced into an alliance, but the enthusiastic participation of a true believer.
A weapons locker contained an arsenal which made the ammunition in his study look like a casual collection.
Silver-blessed blades, consecrated bullets, restraint systems designed specifically for supernatural beings.
Professional supernatural hunting equipment, maintained and ready for immediate use.
The medical records revealed the truly horrific scope of the operation.
Hundreds of supernatural beings had been processed through this facility over the past year—werewolves, vampires, witches, fae.
Some were used for experimentation and discarded.
Others had been transferred to what the files called “primary facilities” for long-term study.
“Damn,” she muttered. If this place wasn’t the primary facility as she’d hoped then where was it? Was it still in country?
Summer found Rowan’s file in a drawer marked “Alpha Specimens.” His photograph stared back at her from clinical documentation that cataloged every aspect of his capture, processing, and planned utilization.
Blood type, supernatural abilities, pack affiliations, psychological profile.
Summer bit back her sobs. They’ve studied him like a laboratory animal.
Subject exhibits exceptional resistance to bond interference procedures, one entry read. Recommend escalation to Phase Two protocols at Primary Facility Omega.
The transfer date was two days ago. He’d been moved while Summer accepted Fabian’s hospitality, and allowing herself to be seduced by his lies about helping her find her mate.
Summer photographed every page of Rowan’s file, her hands trembling with rage and self-recrimination. How could she have been so blind? How could she have accepted care from the man who was systematically destroying the person she loved most?
She searched every room in the underground complex, desperate to find some sign of Rowan, that the transfer records were wrong.
But the cells were empty except for lingering traces of supernatural scents—wolf, vampire, others she couldn’t identify.
Evidence of dozens of prisoners, but no current captives.
Rowan was no longer here. He’d been moved to another facility for Phase Two experimentation. She had no idea where to begin looking.
Summer was photographing the last of the Vatican correspondence, when she clutched at her chest. Pain exploded through her torso.
It felt as if her heart was being squeezed in a vise.
The mate bond, which had been pulsing weakly recently was suddenly muted.
She pressed two fingers against the scar. Cold.
Summer dropped to her knees on the icy basement floor, moving her hand to press against her chest; a yawning emptiness had opened. She couldn’t tell if the bond was completely dead or had been suppressed outside her ability to detect it.
“No,” she whispered, pressing both hands against her sternum as if she could force the connection to return. “No, no, no…”
But the bond remained muted. Summer knew from her research bonds could be muted artificially but complete severance could also mean death. But the bond was muted before when she’d been trapped in the bayou cabin.
Rowan had been on the cusp of death, but he was alive. He couldn’t be dead, now. Could he?
Summer made it back to her room, but her legs gave out the moment she closed the door. She slid down the silk-papered wall to crumple on the Persian rug.
The emptiness was worse than anything she’d ever experienced. For months, Rowan’s presence had been a constant warmth in her chest, a steady rhythm beneath her own heartbeat. Even during their recent separation, she’d hoped he was alive somewhere in the world.
Now there was nothing. A void so complete it felt like part of her soul had been surgically excised, leaving behind raw spiritual wounds that would never heal.
Summer wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked slightly, trying to contain the grief threatening to tear her apart.
She’d chosen love over immortality, mortality over eternal power, and this was her reward.
A beautiful prison, a dead mate and the crushing realization that every choice she’d made had been wrong.
“Summer?” Fabian’s concerned voice carried through the door. “I can hear your distress, ma chérie. Please, let me help.”
She should refuse him. Knew she should scream at him, demand answers about the basement facility and the Vatican correspondence. But the emptiness where Rowan once was had consumed her ability to fight, her capacity for anger, and her strength to resist.
“Come in,” she whispered.
Fabian entered with his usual grace. He carried a silver tray with delicate china; pills which looked like mild sedatives were arranged beside the tea pot.
His pale eyes held genuine sorrow as he took in her position on the floor, her tear-stained face and how she was holding herself together with trembling hands.
“I can sense the difference, ma chérie,” he said quietly, settling onto the rug beside her. “Your wolf has stopped fighting for the connection. I can feel it. Sometimes wolves choose to sever bonds they no longer wish to maintain. Je suis désolée, ma chérie.”
“He’s really dead?” Her words came out broken. “My mate is actually dead, and I wasn’t even there? I was here, accepting your hospitality, letting you take care of me while he was dying.”
“You couldn’t have changed anything,” Fabian said, his hand finding hers and squeezing gently. “Whatever happened to Rowan, wherever he went after he chose exile, you couldn’t have followed. You couldn’t have saved him.”
The comfort felt genuine; Summer found herself clinging to it despite everything. “I should have tried harder to find him. Should have tracked him somehow, convinced him to let me help.”
“You could have been killed in the process.” Fabian’s free hand stroked her hair with genuine tenderness.
“Summer, you’ve been torturing yourself with guilt and impossible hope.
The investigations, the conspiracy theories about Vatican hunters and underground facilities—they were ways of avoiding the simple truth; your mate abandoned you and then he died. ”
The words should have stung, but they felt like relief instead.
Summer breathed in, her nostrils full of his heady cologne.
What if Fabian was right? She leaned into his smell, her body relaxing as she breathed in his fragrance.
What if she’d been creating elaborate explanations, because accepting straightforward loss was too painful?
She pulled away from him. Mind and body battling. “You think I imagined the basement? The files and equipment?”