Chapter 12
The snow fell silently around us, coating the world in a deceptive blanket of purity.
I stood motionless, dressed in black tactical gear that blended with the night, my breath forming small clouds in the frigid air.
Ivory Crest Manor loomed before us, a once-grand estate now fallen to decay, its windows dark and empty like the sockets of a skull.
But it wasn't the manor that held my attention.
My eyes were fixed on what appeared to be nothing more than a small stone building at the edge of the property, an innocuous structure that Sebastian Lynch insisted held the answers we'd been desperately seeking for weeks.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a war drum of anticipation and dread.
Almost six weeks. Six fucking weeks since she'd been taken.
Six weeks of nightmares, of imagining what might be happening to her, of blaming myself for leaving her alone that night.
Six weeks of watching Ryder spiral into obsession and Cole retreat into a cold, emotionless shell.
Six weeks of feeling like I was drowning, unable to breathe, unable to think of anything but finding her.
And now we were here, on the night before New Year's Eve, ready to storm the former estate of the disgraced former High Lord, William McIntyre, father of Damien McIntyre, the man who we were now certain had orchestrated Cade's abduction.
"Everyone's in position," Sebastian murmured into his comm unit, his voice betraying none of the tension I knew he must be feeling.
"Awaiting your order." The night was alive with hidden movement.
Trivium enforcers surrounded the property, black-clad shadows slipping through the trees with practiced stealth.
I knew Bruce Turner and James Killingham were waiting in a command vehicle down the road, coordinating the operation.
This wasn't just a rescue mission. This was a full-scale Trivium assault, sanctioned at the highest levels.
I glanced at Ryder and Cole, who stood nearby, checking their weapons with grim determination.
Ryder's eyes burned with a feverish intensity, his movements jerky and impatient.
Cole was his opposite, eerily calm, methodical, his face a mask of cold purpose after executing David Marshall last night.
"You're sure she's here?" I asked Sebastian for what must have been the tenth time. I couldn't help it. We'd had false leads before, each one cutting deeper than the last. Sebastian's jaw tightened.
"If she's anywhere, she's here."
He'd explained it all before, how William McIntyre had been a High Lord of the Trivium before James Killingham, how Sebastian and Killingham had worked together to expose McIntyre's trafficking ring, which rivalled even Dominic Blake's in its depravity.
How McIntyre had been sentenced to the Hole, his assets seized, his family disgraced.
How his eldest son, Alec, had kidnapped Sebastian's wife, Lily, in a game of manipulation, holding her captive in this very bunker.
"Damien wasn't even on the scene when I was going after McIntyre," Sebastian had told us.
"He was a product of some fucked up breeding scheme in the Trivium.
" The news of this so-called scheme had shocked me to the core.
I knew the Trivium was corrupt, but what I heard from Sebastian took it to a whole new level.
"But why Cade?" Cole had asked. "Why not go after Killingham directly?" Sebastian had been vague, muttering something about Killingham being the Regents' High Lord, how a missing Consort made him look weak. But I sensed there was more to it, something Sebastian wasn't telling us.
But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was getting her back.
"On my mark," Sebastian said into his comm, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
He looked at us, his eyes hard. "Ready?" I nodded, tightening my grip on my weapon.
Ryder's face twisted into something that might have been a smile in another life.
Cole simply inclined his head, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the darkness. Sebastian pressed his comm.
"Go." The word unleashed hell.
We moved like a flood of shadow, pouring toward the stone building that concealed the entrance to the bunker.
Enforcers breached the door with practiced efficiency, and then we were inside, descending a narrow staircase that plunged deep into the earth.
The air grew colder, staler, as we moved downward, the walls closing in around us.
My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out everything but the sound of boots on concrete and the harsh rhythm of my own breathing. This was it. This had to be it. If she wasn't here...
I couldn't complete the thought.
The staircase opened into a large underground room that might have been elegant once, with plush couches, a well-stocked bar, and soft lighting, but now had the feel of a den of iniquity.
Five men were scattered around the space, drinks in hand, their faces transforming from relaxed enjoyment to shock as we burst in.
"Nobody move," Sebastian barked, his weapon trained on the centre of the room.
One of the men lunged for what looked like a panic button, but Cole was faster, tackling him to the ground with brutal force.
The others were quickly subdued by Trivium enforcers, though not without resistance.
Shouts and curses filled the air as the men were forced to their knees, hands zip-tied behind their backs.
My eyes scanned the room frantically, searching for any sign of Cadence, but she wasn't there. Just these men, their faces now masks of fear and defiance.
"Where is she?" I demanded, grabbing the nearest one by his collar. "Where's Cadence Turner?" The man spat at my feet.
"Fuck you." I drew back my fist, ready to beat the information out of him, but Sebastian's hand on my shoulder stopped me.
"No time," he said, gesturing toward three corridors that branched off from the main room. "We need to move." He pointed to each corridor in turn, assigning teams.
"Logan, take the east wing. Ryder, west. Cole, with me to the north. Move fast, check every room. She's here somewhere." I nodded, gathering four enforcers with a jerk of my head, and moved toward the eastern corridor.
The passage was dimly lit, the walls damp with condensation, the air heavy with the metallic scent of neglect. Doors lined both sides, some open, revealing empty rooms with bare mattresses or strange equipment that made my stomach turn; others closed, hiding God knows what horrors.
"Clear!" an enforcer called after checking the first room.
"Clear!" echoed from the second. My dread mounted with each empty room. What if she wasn't here? What if this was another dead end? What if Damien had moved her, or worse...
I pushed the thought away, focusing on the task at hand. Door after door, room after room. All empty.
And then, at the end of the corridor, a heavy metal door swung open.
A man staggered out, zipping up his pants, his face flushed.
He looked up, freezing when he saw us, his eyes widening with fear.
Something cold and terrible settled in my gut.
The man tried to run, but two enforcers tackled him to the ground, restraining him with practiced efficiency.
I barely registered their actions. My focus was entirely on that metal door, on what might lie beyond it.
The stench hit me first, a nauseating blend of sweat, urine, blood, and sex that made my gorge rise. I pushed the door open wider, my hand shaking despite my effort to control it.
The room beyond was dark, illuminated only by a single bulb that cast more shadows than light.
It was freezing cold, the walls slick with condensation, the floor concrete and filthy.
A thin, stained mattress lay in one corner, but my eyes were drawn to the figure sprawled on the floor beside it. My heart stopped.
She was naked, her body so thin I could count her ribs even from the doorway.
Her skin was a patchwork of bruises, cuts, and what looked like burns, some fresh, some healing, some infected.
Her hair, once vibrant purple, was now a faded, dirty smudge against the concrete.
She was curled into herself, trembling, barely moving. But it was her.
"Oh, God," I whispered, the words tearing from my throat. "Cadence."
I rushed to her side, falling to my knees beside her.
Up close, the damage was even worse. Her face was swollen, one eye nearly closed from bruising.
Her lips were cracked and bleeding. Finger-shaped bruises marked her neck, her arms, her thighs.
And the smell, God, the smell of unwashed skin and bodily fluids and something worse, something broken.
"Cade," I said again, reaching for her shoulder with a trembling hand. "Cadence, it's me. It's Logan." She flinched violently at my touch, a whimper escaping her cracked lips as she tried to curl further into herself.
"No, please," she rasped, her voice barely audible, raw from what I could only imagine was screaming. "Not again. Please, no more. I can't, I can't take any more." Her words were like knives in my chest. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Cadence, it's Logan. You're safe now. I'm here to help you." She trembled harder, shaking her head blindly.
"Please, please stop. I'll be good. I'll do whatever you want.
Just don't hurt me again. Please." My vision blurred with tears.
This broken, terrified creature bore almost no resemblance to the fierce, defiant woman I'd known.
What had they done to her? What horrors had she endured in this freezing hell?
"Princess," I whispered, using the nickname I'd given her months ago, one that had started as mockery but had somehow transformed into something like affection.
"Princess, it's me. It's Logan. You're safe now.
" She stilled, her trembling subsiding slightly.
Slowly, painfully, she lifted her head, her eyes, still that striking blue, even amid all the damage, focusing on my face with obvious effort.
"L-Logan?" she whispered, disbelief and hope warring in her voice.
"Yes," I said, relief washing through me at this small recognition.
"Yes, it's me. I've got you. You're safe.
" Her face crumpled, and a sound escaped her that wasn't quite human, a keening wail of pain and relief and a thousand other emotions I couldn't name.
She lurched forward, collapsing against my chest, her bony fingers clutching at my tactical vest with surprising strength.
"Logan," she sobbed, her whole body heaving with the force of her cries.
"Logan, Logan, Logan." I wrapped my arms around her, careful of her injuries, and pulled her against me.
She was so light, so fragile, it felt like holding a bird with broken wings.
I shrugged out of my jacket and draped it around her naked form, trying to shield her from both the cold and the gazes of the enforcers who had gathered at the door.
"I've got you," I murmured into her filthy hair, rocking her gently as she sobbed against me.
"I've got you, Princess. You're safe now.
No one's going to hurt you anymore." Her sobs intensified, her body convulsing with the force of them.
I held her tighter, my own tears falling freely now.
I'd found her. After six weeks of hell, I'd found her.
She was alive. Broken, traumatised, but alive.