28. The Value Of Things
28
THE VALUE OF THINGS
~KNOX~
I whistle appreciatively as Bastian's fist connects with Elliott Prescott Junior's face for the third time—a precise, measured strike that's carefully calculated to cause maximum pain with minimal permanent damage. The sound of knuckles against cheekbone echoes in the basement's confined space, followed by the wet splatter of blood hitting concrete.
Elliott coughs violently, crimson spattering his once-pristine white dress shirt. His blue blazer is long gone, torn during his futile resistance when Bastian first brought him down here. He pulls uselessly at the restraints binding him to the heavy metal chair—industrial-grade zip ties that would require bolt cutters or a very sharp knife to sever.
"You're fucking dead!" Elliott spits, more blood trickling from the corner of his mouth where his teeth have cut into the inside of his cheek. "All of you—dead by sundown. Do you have any idea who my father is?"
Bastian sighs, the sound carrying more boredom than concern as he flexes his hand, examining his knuckles for damage. The black leather gloves have protected his skin, but even reinforced material can only absorb so much impact.
"I'd like to see you try to take me out," Bastian replies with the calm certainty of someone who's faced far more dangerous threats than an entitled Alpha with daddy issues. "Just try with Dad's money and see where that loophole goes back to."
I can't help but laugh at the accurate assessment. For all his bluster, Elliott Prescott Junior is merely the puppet extension of his father's influence—a fact he's either too arrogant or too stupid to recognize.
My attention drifts to the long table against the far wall where Rook keeps his impressive collection of "persuasion tools." The array would make professional interrogators envious—everything from medieval-inspired classics to modern innovations that leave no visible marks. But it's not the implements of pain that interest me currently.
I cross the room to retrieve my laptop from where it sits amidst the intimidating display. The juxtaposition of high technology beside such primitive instruments of torment feels oddly appropriate—a representation of the various methods through which information and compliance can be extracted.
Carrying the computer, I settle into a chair directly facing the confrontation between Bastian and our restrained guest. From this vantage point, I can observe every microexpression that crosses Elliott's increasingly battered face, every tell that might reveal useful information beyond his verbal responses.
In the corner of Rook's specialized basement, Elliott's so-called bodyguards lie in an unconscious heap, their expensive suits rumpled and stained. They hadn't provided much challenge—quantity over quality, clearly Elliott's standard approach to protection. Five mediocre fighters are still no match for someone with Bastian's training and experience.
"It was foolish of you and your weak posse to try and track, corner, and beat up an ex-militant who used to work with secret services and bodyguard some of the most criminal individuals and their families," Bastian remarks conversationally, as if discussing the weather rather than his extensive resume of violence. "But I give you an A for effort."
Elliott spits more blood onto the floor, eyes burning with hatred and the particular brand of entitlement that comes from never facing consequences for one's actions. "You made a big fucking mistake trying to be with that Omega," he snarls, struggling against his restraints with renewed vigor. "She's my property, and she's going to be Senator Caldwell's Omega once he rises to his position with his winning campaign."
The casual claim of ownership sends a cold wave of rage through my system, but I maintain my outward appearance of amused detachment. Getting emotional would only give this waste of genetic material the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten under my skin.
"It's nice to see how confident you are in such a position," I remark, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth as my fingers dance across the keyboard, activating programs and protocols that would make government agencies drool with envy. "But since you're so confident in what you're saying, why don't we let it unfold and see if you win the bet?"
Bastian glances over at me, wariness evident in his expression. He knows me well enough to recognize when I'm setting something in motion that might complicate our already delicate situation.
"What are you planning, Knox?" he asks, voice pitched low enough that Elliott can't hear the undercurrent of concern.
I chuckle, closing the laptop with deliberate showmanship. "It's a secret."
Rising from my chair, I approach where Bastian stands beside our captive. Elliott's face is a mess—lower lip split, left eye swelling, a nasty gash across his right cheekbone where Bastian's reinforced glove caught him at just the right angle. The injuries are impressive but temporary, nothing that won't heal with time and expensive medical care.
"I'm only doing this because your dear Papa seems to care enough about you to strike a temporary deal," I announce, producing a tactical knife from my pocket. The serrated blade catches the harsh basement lighting as I move to cut through the zip ties securing Elliott's wrists to the chair arms.
His expression shifts from defiance to confusion, suspicion warring with hope as he processes the unexpected development. "What are you talking about?"
Rather than answering directly, I reopen my laptop, turning the screen to display the email I received approximately seventeen minutes ago. The sender details are encrypted, but the content is crystal clear—a wire transfer confirmation showing one billion dollars moved to an offshore account I set up this morning, accompanied by terse instructions for Elliott's safe return.
"You told my Dad I was fucking kidnapped?" Elliott explodes, indignation temporarily overriding his fear and pain.
Bastian shrugs those massive shoulders, the gesture deceptively casual. "Were we supposed to tell him you were skinny dipping with a bunch of Alphas? We know your Dad is pretty homophobic." A contemplative expression crosses his scarred face. "Pretty stupid if you ask me, but then again, what's my opinion got to do with anything?"
The implication lands exactly as intended, color draining from Elliott's face before rushing back in an angry flush. "You fucking?—"
Whatever creative insult he was about to deliver dies on his lips as he lurches to his feet, swaying slightly before finding his balance. He takes an aggressive step in my direction, a growl building in his throat as his hands clench into fists at his sides.
I laugh at the display—this wounded, disheveled Alpha trying to intimidate me with posturing I've seen from far more dangerous men. The sound clearly infuriates him further, his face contorting with rage as he moves closer, invading my personal space with deliberate intent.
Instead of backing away, I lean in, meeting his attempted intimidation with predatory intensity of my own. My smile remains fixed in place, but I allow the mask of playful irreverence to slip just enough for him to glimpse what lies beneath—the cold, calculating intelligence that makes even my own pack members occasionally uneasy.
"You're worth one billion to your Papa Dearest," I whisper, my voice dropping to a register that carries clearly despite its softness, "and yet our girl has a ten billion bounty on her head, and you think you're going to make her day miserable as if she's not worth nine-tenths more than you?"
He opens his mouth to argue, but I press a finger against his lips, silencing him with the unexpected contact. "Nope. Read the email. Out loud."
The command takes him by surprise, confusion momentarily replacing anger. When he hesitates, I grab his chin with enough force to ensure compliance without causing additional damage, angling his face toward the laptop screen.
"Read. It."
His resistance crumbles under the combined weight of my grip and Bastian's looming presence just behind my shoulder. His eyes track across the screen, widening slightly as he processes the full content of the message.
"The highest bid being offered is one billion," he reads, voice mechanical as the words register. "If not acceptable, you can just go fuck another Omega and get a new heir in nine months."
The naked brutality of his father's contingency plan lands like a physical blow. For all his bluster about family connections and paternal power, Elliott Prescott Junior is ultimately just another replaceable asset in his father's portfolio—valued at exactly one billion dollars, with a readily available backup plan if that price proves too steep.
He falls silent after reading the damning words, something shifting in his expression that might almost resemble vulnerability if I were inclined to grant him that much humanity. But I remember Jessica's face this morning—the raw terror, the paralysis—and any inclination toward sympathy evaporates like morning dew under a blowtorch.
I close the laptop with a decisive snap, tucking it securely under my arm. "If you try to hurt a hair on our Omega's head, there will be consequences," I warn, allowing genuine menace to color my typically playful tone. "But don't worry, it won't be from us. We'll ensure she tortures you just the way she likes it, so you can get a glimpse of what revenge really looks like."
Elliott's hands clench into fists at his sides, trembling with the effort of restraining himself from physical retaliation. The struggle is evident in every line of his body—the desire to lash out warring with the primitive survival instinct that recognizes, however reluctantly, that he is outmatched.
"The bodyguard boys over on the floor will be dropped off in front of your dorm room," Bastian adds, glancing toward the still-unconscious heap of expensive suits and poor life choices. "Relatively intact, as a professional courtesy."
The false civility seems to break something in Elliott, his tenuous control shattering as he jabs a finger toward my face, close enough that I can feel the displaced air against my skin.
"That cunt bitch is nothing but a slut that should have been left for dead," he snarls, spittle flying from his lips as the carefully maintained veneer of sophistication crumbles completely. "I don't regret shit."
The admission hangs in the air between us, naked and vicious in its honesty. No pretense, no justification, just the raw, ugly truth of who Elliott Prescott Junior really is beneath the expensive clothes and practiced charm.
I smile.
Not my usual grin, not the playful smirk that accompanies clever wordplay or technological triumph. This is something darker, colder—the expression that Knox Eastman reserves for those rare occasions when the full force of my attention and capabilities will be brought to bear against a deserving target.
I take a single step closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. Our faces are inches apart now, close enough that I can smell the copper tang of blood on his breath, can see the individual capillaries that have burst beneath his skin from Bastian's precise strikes.
"And that," I whisper, voice soft enough that he must strain to hear despite our proximity, "is exactly what I needed to hear."
Confusion flickers across his battered features, quickly replaced by the first stirrings of genuine fear as he processes my expression, the dead seriousness beneath my perpetual air of manic energy.
"You see, Elliott, I wasn't recording before. Not when Bastian was using you as a punching bag. Not when you were making threats." My smile widens, showing too many teeth to be reassuring. "But I started recording the moment I showed you that email. And that little confession just now? Pure gold."
The blood drains from his face as understanding dawns. "You can't?—"
"I can do whatever I want with this recording," I interrupt, allowing genuine pleasure to color my tone. "Send it to Senator Caldwell, perhaps? I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear his protégé openly admitting to attempted murder. Or maybe to the media outlets currently vetting the Senator's campaign? 'Rising Political Star's Son Confesses to Violent Assault on Female Omega'—that would make quite the headline, don't you think?"
Elliott lunges for me, all calculation abandoned in the face of panic and rage. Before his hands can make contact, Bastian steps between us with preternatural quickness that belies his massive size. One hand catches Elliott's wrist, twisting just enough to immobilize without breaking.
"That would be inadvisable," Bastian says mildly, as if suggesting Elliott reconsider his choice of tie rather than preventing an assault.
I step around Bastian's bulk, positioning myself where Elliott can see me clearly despite being restrained. "Here's what's going to happen," I say, all pretense of playfulness dropped in favor of cold precision. "You're going to leave Jessica Vesper—or Venom, or Nightshade, or whatever name you know her by—completely alone. You won't approach her, speak to her, or even look in her direction."
Elliott starts to protest, but Bastian applies slightly more pressure to his wrist, the silent warning immediately effective.
"You will ensure that your 'pack,'" I continue, infusing the word with enough sarcasm to make clear exactly what I think of his sad collection of followers, "understands these same restrictions apply to them. No contact, no surveillance, no harassment—direct or indirect."
I tap my laptop meaningfully. "If you comply, this recording remains our little secret. If you don't—if you or any of your associates so much as breathe in her direction—it goes public. Along with several other interesting tidbits I've managed to uncover about your family's business practices over the last few hours."
"The death squads your father employs in South America, for instance," I elaborate, enjoying the widening of his eyes as I casually reference information that should be buried beneath layers of shell companies and NDAs. "Or the interesting chemical compounds being manufactured in those Vietnamese facilities that don't officially exist. Or perhaps the rather creative accounting methods used to hide assets from the IRS—that one's particularly detailed. I have spreadsheets."
Each revelation lands like a physical blow, Elliott's expression cycling through shock, fear, and dawning comprehension of exactly how thoroughly I've penetrated his family's supposedly impenetrable security.
"You're bluffing," he manages finally, the accusation lacking conviction even to my ears.
I laugh, the sound genuine in its amusement. "Elliott, Elliott, Elliott. Bluffing requires uncertainty about one's capabilities. I don't bluff. I simply state facts and allow others to make poor decisions based on their underestimation of my resources."
I step closer, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Want to know the best part? Your father's people detected my intrusion about forty-three minutes ago. They're currently engaged in what they believe is a sophisticated counter-hack, tracing my digital footprints back to their source."
A twist of satisfaction curls through me as genuine fear replaces the last vestiges of defiance in his expression. "What they don't realize is that I wanted to be detected. Wanted them to follow the breadcrumbs I so carefully laid out. And when they reach the end of that particular trail approximately"—I glance at my watch—"seventeen minutes from now, they'll find themselves in a rather awkward situation with several federal agencies who take a dim view of the particular activities detailed in the files I've so helpfully compiled."
"You can't do this," Elliott whispers, all bravado evaporated like morning dew. "My father will?—"
"Your father will be far too busy ensuring his own survival to worry about yours," I interrupt, patting his cheek with mock sympathy. "But don't worry. I've arranged for the evidence against you personally to remain sealed—contingent, of course, on your continued good behavior regarding our Jessica."
The use of the possessive pronoun is deliberate, a clear delineation of territory and protection. Jessica is pack now—whether she's fully acknowledged it or not—and pack protects its own by whatever means necessary.
Elliott's shoulders slump, the fight draining from him as the full magnitude of his situation becomes clear. He's accustomed to being the predator, not the prey; to holding power rather than facing its consequences. The reversal has left him unmoored, adrift in unfamiliar waters without the flotation devices of privilege and connection he's relied on his entire life.
"You've got about thirty minutes before your father's security team arrives at the academy looking for you," I inform him, consulting my watch again with exaggerated precision. "They'll be operating under the assumption that you've been released as agreed upon payment of ransom. I suggest you use that time to clean yourself up and craft a convincing explanation for your current condition that doesn't involve mentioning us."
Bastian releases Elliott's wrist, stepping back to provide the illusion of freedom while remaining close enough to intervene if necessary. "We'll be watching," he adds, the simple statement carrying more weight than elaborate threats could achieve.
Elliott rubs his wrist where Bastian's grip has left marks, his gaze darting between us as if searching for some loophole, some weakness in our position that might allow him to regain the upper hand. Finding none, his expression settles into sullen acceptance tinged with the smoldering embers of hatred.
"Get out," Bastian says, jerking his head toward the basement stairs. "Before I decide one billion wasn't quite enough compensation for having to listen to your voice."
For a moment, it seems Elliott might attempt some final act of defiance, some parting shot to salvage his wounded pride. But self-preservation wins out over ego—a rare victory given his clear personality defects. Without another word, he turns and limps toward the stairs, each step carefully measured to avoid aggravating injuries that will take weeks to fully heal.
We watch in silence as he ascends, the sound of his footsteps growing fainter until the heavy basement door closes behind him with a definitive thud.
"Think he got the message?" Bastian asks, rolling his shoulders to release tension accumulated during the confrontation.
I chuckle, opening my laptop to check on various programs running in the background. "If he didn't, the next demonstration will be considerably less gentle."
Bastian's scarred eyebrow rises slightly. "Were you serious about his father's security team being on the way?"
"Oh, absolutely," I confirm, fingers flying across the keyboard as I make minor adjustments to several active protocols. "They've been tracking his phone's GPS since I reactivated the signal approximately twenty-seven minutes ago. They should reach the academy perimeter in"—I glance at the countdown timer in the corner of my screen—"twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds, assuming current traffic patterns hold steady."
A faint smile crosses Bastian's face, there and gone like a shadow. "And the federal agencies? The evidence? The counter-hack?"
"Partially true," I admit, not looking up from my work. "I did plant enough evidence of questionable activities to keep Prescott Senior's cybersecurity team busy for the next seventy-two hours minimum. And there are certain flags now attached to their digital operations that will attract attention from regulatory bodies if they make any significant financial movements in the next fiscal quarter."
I close several programs before meeting Bastian's gaze with a wicked grin. "But the full nuclear option remains on standby, ready to deploy if our friend fails to honor his end of our agreement."
Bastian shakes his head, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration in his expression. "Marcus is going to have questions."
"Marcus always has questions," I counter, saving my work before shutting down the laptop. "That's why he keeps me around—to provide answers before he even knows he needs them."
The sound of the basement door opening again draws our attention. Heavy footsteps descend the stairs, the distinctive cadence immediately identifying the newcomer before he comes into view.
Rook appears at the bottom of the staircase, his expression grim beneath the half-mask he wears. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in the unconscious bodies in the corner, the bloodstains on the concrete floor, the general disarray that suggests recent violence.
"You let him go," he observes, voice carefully neutral despite the tension evident in his powerful frame.
"Temporarily," I clarify, tucking my laptop under my arm as I move toward the stairs. "With appropriate incentives to behave himself moving forward."
Rook's eyes narrow slightly. "What kind of incentives?"
"The kind that ensure compliance without requiring constant enforcement," Bastian answers, stripping off his bloodied gloves and tossing them into a metal trash can specifically designated for evidence disposal. "Knox was very thorough."
A grunt is Rook's only response, neither approval nor condemnation. His attention shifts to the unconscious Alphas. "What about them?"
"They'll wake up with headaches and a newfound appreciation for choosing their associations more carefully," Bastian says with a shrug. "Nothing permanent, nothing traceable."
Rook nods once, apparently satisfied with this assessment. "Nightshade is awake," he announces, his tone softening slightly at the mention of her name. "She's asking for you, Knox."
The information surprises me enough that I momentarily drop my carefully maintained facade of omniscience. "Me? Not you or Marcus?"
A fleeting expression that might almost be amusement crosses Rook's usually stoic features. "Said something about needing your particular skill set. Wouldn't elaborate further."
Curiosity immediately replaces any lingering bloodlust from the confrontation with Elliott. Jessica Vesper Calavera asking for my assistance specifically is unprecedented—intriguing enough to warrant immediate investigation.
"Where is she?" I ask, already moving toward the stairs with renewed energy.
"Guest room. Second floor, east wing."
I take the steps two at a time, mind racing through possibilities. What skill set could she be referring to? My technological expertise? My research capabilities? My network of somewhat questionable contacts throughout various underground communities?
Behind me, I hear Bastian's deep voice rumble a question, followed by Rook's quieter response, but I'm already too focused on this new puzzle to pay attention to their conversation.
The main floor of the house is quiet as I pass through, the afternoon sun casting long shadows through tall windows. The second floor is similarly peaceful, the thick carpeting muffling my footsteps as I make my way toward the east wing where our temporary quarters have been established.
I pause outside the door to the guest room, suddenly uncertain about the protocol for entering. Under normal circumstances, I'd simply barge in—boundaries and personal space have never been concepts I'm particularly concerned with. But given Jessica's recent trauma and current vulnerability, standard Knox operating procedures might not be appropriate.
Before I can decide on the best approach, the door swings open to reveal Jessica herself. She's changed from the academy uniform into more comfortable clothing—leggings and an oversized hoodie that I recognize as belonging to Rook. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup, revealing the constellation of freckles across her nose that she usually conceals.
She looks younger like this, more vulnerable, though the sharp intelligence in her blue eyes remains undimmed despite the redness that speaks of recent tears.
"You took your time," she says by way of greeting, stepping back to allow me entry. "Did you enjoy playing with Prescott?"
The casual question catches me off guard. I expected fragility, perhaps lingering shock from her earlier breakdown. Instead, she addresses the situation with the same direct pragmatism that first drew my attention when investigating her activities in Dead Knot.
"It had its moments," I reply, matching her tone as I follow her into the room. "Though I prefer intellectual challenges to physical intimidation. That's more Bastian's domain."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips as she settles onto the edge of the bed, gesturing for me to take the chair positioned nearby. "I need your help," she says without preamble, all business now that pleasantries have been dispensed with.
"So Rook mentioned." I drop into the indicated seat, curiosity practically vibrating through my system. "He was notably vague about the details."
She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a small gesture that betrays nervousness despite her composed exterior. "I need information. About Senator Caldwell. The kind that doesn't appear in public records or campaign biographies."
The request instantly clarifies her decision to summon me rather than the others. While all four of us possess dangerous skill sets, my particular talent for uncovering secrets—for finding the digital breadcrumbs most people don't even realize they've left behind—makes me the obvious choice for this type of operation.
"The sixth man," I say, not bothering to phrase it as a question. We both know exactly why she wants information on the Senator—the last remaining attacker from that night who hasn't yet faced her vengeance.
She nods, something hardening in her expression. "Seeing Elliott today made me realize how unprepared I am. How much I've focused on him as the ringleader while allowing Caldwell to operate in my blind spot." Her hands clench into fists on her lap, knuckles whitening with the force of her grip. "That stops now."
I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees as I study her with newfound respect. Hours after a panic attack severe enough to render her unconscious, she's already regrouping, strategizing, converting fear into tactical advantage. It's impressive by any standard, but particularly so given the psychological weight of her morning encounter.
"You understand what you're asking?" I clarify, wanting to ensure she's fully cognizant of the implications. "Information of this nature comes with certain... complications. Especially regarding someone in Caldwell's position."
"I'm not asking you to hack into government systems or commit espionage," she counters, correctly interpreting my concern. "Just... fill in the blanks. Help me understand who he really is beneath the political persona."
I consider this for a moment, mentally cataloging the resources already at my disposal versus those I'd need to activate for a deeper dive. "Timeline?"
"As soon as possible," she replies without hesitation. "I need to be prepared next time. Need to understand exactly who I'm dealing with."
The determination in her voice, the clarity of purpose in her eyes—they remind me why this Omega has survived where others would have broken. Why she's managed to eliminate four of her attackers while maintaining her cover and her sanity.
Why she fits so perfectly into our dysfunctional pack despite her resistance to formalizing the connection.
"I'll need twenty-four hours," I tell her, already mapping out search parameters and access points in my mind. "Possibly less, depending on how well the Senator has covered his digital tracks."
Relief washes across her features, shoulders relaxing fractionally at my agreement. "Thank you."
The simple gratitude, offered without qualification or deflection, creates an unexpected warmth in my chest. Jessica Vesper Calavera doesn't trust easily—doesn't ask for help, doesn't acknowledge need or vulnerability if she can avoid it. That she's come to me directly, that she's allowing me to see this side of her planning process, represents a level of trust I hadn't realized we'd established.
"Don't thank me yet," I warn, though the words lack any real caution. "You might not like what I find."
A smile curves her lips—not the careful, calculated expression she typically allows others to see, but something genuine and slightly dangerous.
"Oh, I'm counting on not liking it," she says, voice dropping to a register that sends a shiver racing down my spine despite the warmth of the room. "The more despicable he is, the more justified I'll feel when I finally get my hands on him."
The naked honesty of her bloodlust should be disturbing. Instead, I find myself responding with a matching grin, recognizing in her the same darkness that lives in all of us—in Marcus's calculated strategies, in Bastian's controlled violence, in Rook's savage protection, in my own digital destructions.
"Then let's make sure you have everything you need," I promise, already pulling out my phone to set certain processes in motion. "When the time comes, he won't even see you coming."
Her expression shifts to something almost feral, a glimpse of the predator beneath the trauma survivor. "Perfect."
And it is perfect—this moment of shared purpose, of aligned darkness channeled toward deserving targets. For all our differences, for all the complications that remain to be navigated, this commonality binds us together with bonds stronger than formal pack declarations could achieve.
We understand each other, Jessica and I. Broken people who've rebuilt themselves into weapons, who use their damage as armor against a world that tried to destroy them.
As I begin outlining my approach to gathering the information she seeks, I can't help but think that Elliott Prescott Junior has no idea how fortunate he was today. If he'd encountered Jessica herself rather than Bastian and me, I suspect his injuries would have been considerably more permanent.
But that reckoning is merely postponed, not canceled. And when it comes—when Jessica finally faces the men who nearly destroyed her—she won't be standing alone.
She'll have us—all four of us—at her back. A family forged in blood and darkness, bound by choice rather than biology.
A pack.