Chapter 22
Ego
It’s really storming now.
The kind of late-winter fury that turns New York’s streets into slick rivers of black ice and broken nerves.
Wipers beat a furious rhythm against the windshield as the truck crawls through traffic, past twisted bumpers, and flashing lights from no fewer than six accidents.
But I don’t look away from the blinking dot on Kai’s screen.
The little pulsing signal that tells me where she is.
Where my Angel is.
She’s close. So fucking close I can feel it in my bones.
In the fire in my chest.
In the growl climbing up my throat every time I think about how scared she must be.
About what that bastard might be doing to her.
She was wearing those knee-high boots I love today—the ones with the little gold buckle around her ankle.
The ones I slipped a micro-tracker into when she wasn’t looking.
I told myself it was for her safety.
Now I thank every dark thought in my head for that decision.
My mind races, filled with memories and thoughts of this morning.
She wore one of those soft cardigans, again. The kind with a million buttons that make her look like a present and I can’t wait to peel it off her.
It was pale pink, this time—like the first bloom of spring.
Cozy. Sweet.
The kind of thing only she could make sexy.
It was buttoned wrong in the middle, two holes off, and I noticed the second she walked out of the bedroom, hair still damp from her shower, humming like the world didn’t have sharp edges.
She was rushing again.
Probably worrying about her lesson plans or wondering if she brought in enough special cookies for her students—her idea of stress relief.
Me? I punch things.
Sabrina bakes snickerdoodles.
And they were good, too.
I crossed the room and gently tugged her sweater into place, fingers brushing the curve of her waist.
She giggled like I’d just told her a dirty joke, her whole body leaning into mine like she couldn’t help it.
Then she kissed me.
Soft. Quick. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to thank me with her mouth.
Like I was the sweetest thing in her world.
As if.
Underneath the cardigan, she had on this slinky little camisole that clung to her breasts and did absolutely nothing to quiet the voice in my head that’s always on edge when she’s about to walk out that door.
My jaw ticked. Not because I didn’t want to look at her.
But because I didn’t want anyone else looking at her.
I must’ve frowned.
Because her smile dimmed.
And fuck, that made me feel like a dick.
She glanced down at herself, tugging the sides of her cardigan together.
“Don’t worry. I know I’m too big for this cami,” she murmured, biting her lip like she was bracing for impact. “The sweater stays buttoned.”
“Shit. No, Angel,” I said quickly, stepping into her space. I took her face in my hands, tilting her chin until her eyes met mine. “That ain’t it.”
She blinked. Unsure.
I cupped her jaw, brushing my thumb across the soft curve of her cheek.
“Truth is, I’m a jealous asshole when it comes to you,” I admitted.
“Yeah, right.”
“I mean it. I love every single fucking one of your curves. Every line, every dip, every delicious inch, and freckle. But look at us.” I gestured between our bodies, close but not touching. “You’re not exactly a big girl, are you?”
Her head tilted.
Still uncertain.
I leaned in, let her feel the tension rippling off me.
“Sabrina,” I said, low and rough, “your body is fucking beautiful. It’s perfect.
Every inch of you is mine, and I’m proud of it.
I was just trying to calculate how many deadly sins I’m liable to commit today, cracking skulls at all the knuckleheads at that school for gawking at you like they’re allowed. ”
She laughed then. A breathy, startled sound.
“Oh my God, Theo. No one at school gawks at me.”
I wasn’t smiling. “There’s Mr. O’Mara from fifth grade. Always finding reasons to pass your classroom.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“And Mr. Kendall. The English teacher.”
“The one for seventh and eighth?”
I didn’t like how fast she knew who I meant.
That was one sin.
She arched a brow. “Anyone else?”
“Richie, that little shit in eighth grade who’s always being sent to the principal’s office. And Father O’Brien,” I added, deadpan.
Her mouth fell open, then she burst out laughing. “The priest? Theo!”
I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t.
But I was glad I made her smile.
Because every time she smiles, it feels like the world is right again. Like maybe, just maybe, I can protect this thing we’ve found.
Every breath she takes is important to me.
And right now—out in this storm, in the hands of someone who doesn’t understand her worth—I swear to God and everything holy in this or any other universe, that I’ll rip the goddamn soul out of anyone who dares try to take that smile away from her.
Yeah, I’d kill for her. A hundred fucking times with no hesitation.
But now—now I’m watching thick chunks of ice and snow rain down, and I wonder if she’s cold.
If she’s scared.
And a sound slips from my throat.
Somewhere between a moan and a sob, and I don’t even fucking care that Kai hears it.
Because this shouldn’t have happened.
It’s my fault.
I should have insisted she stay home today.
I should’ve checked her brother out sooner.
I should’ve known something was off.
I shouldn’t have given her so much fucking space in that gym.
But there’s no room for guilt now.
Guilt doesn’t save her.
Action does.
We trail the dot across the bridge, through the tunnel, and finally, into the belly of Manhattan where the tracker signal leads us straight to a decaying warehouse in an industrial zone that looks like it’s been abandoned since the Cold War.
There’s a black truck parked out front.
Driver’s side door flung open.
The back seat is gaping like a scream.
I jump out of the truck before it fully stops.
A long thread hangs from the back door.
Soft pink.
The exact same fucking color thread as her sweater this morning.
“Angel,” I breathe, my fingers brushing it like a relic.
My jaw clenches so tight I swear something cracks.
“You ready?” Kai asks, already keying the mic to alert Kane to our location.
Less—our demolitions and close-quarters guy—pulls up behind us in a blacked-out SUV.
He’s got the gear. The hardware. The fury.
But I have the motive.
We breach together, silent as ghosts, deadly as wolves.
The warehouse is cavernous.
Wet and echoing with years of mold and forgotten sins.
Concrete and rust, rot, and mildew—it stinks of things left to fester.
And I hear it.
A voice.
Two, maybe three men.
Then, a whimper.
SLAP.
The sound slices through me.
Flesh. On. Flesh.
My teeth grind so hard I taste blood.
I flick my eyes to Kai.
He’s already nodding.
My brother knows me.
I’m not fucking waiting.
Three seconds.
That’s all I give.
Then I move like the hounds of hell are on my feet.
Might as well be.
Boots pounding concrete, I storm through the corridor, gun raised.
BANG.
The first door goes down.
BANG BANG.
The second.
And then I see her.
Jesus. Fuck.
She’s slumped in a metal chair, wrists raw and bloody from the zip ties she’s bound with.
Her cardigan’s half-off, face hidden behind her hair.
Tape over her mouth.
And towering over her is a slab of muscle in a leather jacket screaming in Russian, arm raised, gun pointed at her head.
There are bodies already on the floor.
Blood on the wall.
One man twitching near the corner—still alive, but barely.
They’re Hammerfall’s guys. And they’re DOA.
But I don’t give a single fuck.
Cause the big angry Russian motherfucker holding the gun near my girl is the only thing I can focus on.
I know who he is. And I still don’t fucking care.
This prick slapped her face and made my girl cry.
This dead fucking prick.
I shoot.
Once.
Twice.
He stumbles.
His attention is on me.
Good.
But he’s too slow to know he’s already dead, and he tries to lift the hand with the weapon.
Oddly enough, it doesn’t seem to want to obey.
I keep moving. I keep shooting.
I don’t stop.
I walk toward him, firing over and over and over until my clip runs empty and his body is a twitching, broken mess at Sabrina’s feet.
My hands shake.
I drop the gun and fall to my knees in front of her.
“Angel,” I choke, ripping the tape from her mouth, gently brushing her hair back from her face.
Her eyes open.
Wide, and wet, and shining.
I peel the rest of the tape off, and she whimpers.
“Shit. I’m sorry,” I whisper, taking a knife from my pocket to slice through the zip ties.
My brother and Less are checking on the bodies.
“Six dead. Two alive,” Kai declares.
I give zero fucks.
“Theo!” Sabrina gasps when I finally free her.
She’s sobbing as she throws herself into my arms. I’m so grateful, I catch her, of course.
And I’m clinging to her, too. I think I need this hug more than she does. Need to know she’s alive. Here. Safe. With me.
“Oh, thank God. You came for me.”
What? Did she think I wouldn’t?
Guilt tears at me.
I should have been better. Quicker. This shouldn’t have happened.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, pulling her tight. “I’m so sorry, Angel. Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.”
“You came for me,” she cries, her fingers fisting my shirt. “I knew you would. I knew it—” Then her voice cracks. “Oh God. Marco?”
I freeze.
She pulls back, just enough to look at me, her lip trembling.
“Where’s Marco?” she asks.
Her voice is raw, barely more than a whisper, and it hits me like a bullet straight to the chest.
That’s when I see it.
The blood on the floor.
It doesn’t match her wounds.
And then—behind her chair—I see him.
A slumped figure, motionless. Smaller than the bodies I mowed down.
Familiar.
Fuck.
“Marco,” I breathe, my stomach twisting.
I don’t want her to see this.
Kai rushes over, careful but quick, and drops to a knee beside him.
Checks his neck for a pulse.
There’s blood smeared across Marco’s temple, a gash above one eye, and his arm’s bent at a bad angle.
“He’s alive,” Kai says, glancing up at me and I feel relief flood through my system.
Not for him. Fuck that little weasel for putting her in this mess. My relief is for her.
She’s been through enough. She doesn’t need to grieve for this jerk of a brother, too.
Sabrina lets out a small, cracked sound.
It’s not more than a whimper really.
Part sob, part prayer.
I feel her body shake in my arms, and I grip her tighter, trying to anchor us both.
Relief slams into her, stealing what little strength she has left. Her breath hitches. Her body slackens.
Her knees give out entirely when I help her up—so I don’t make her stand.
I lift her off her feet like she weighs nothing.
Like the world hasn’t just broken around us.
Because to me, she’s precious cargo.
She curls into my chest, her face hidden, and I carry her through the wreckage.
“It’s okay,” I whisper into her hair, my voice hoarse. “I’ve got you, Angel. I’ve got you.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s not okay.
Nothing is.
Not after this.
Not after what they did to her.
And definitely not after what I did to them. In front of her.
The warehouse is silent now, except for her hitched breathing and the distant, rhythmic beep of Kai’s comms.
Our backup is en route.
A cleanup team from Sigma.
Ambulance too.
But they’ll have to wade through the gore first.
Because this place? It’s a goddamn slaughterhouse.
The smell is thick—copper and smoke, mildew, and rot. Like the place itself was dying long before today.
Filthy concrete floors, rusting beams, shattered glass, and bullet casings glinting in the low light.
Water drips somewhere above, the steady plink plink plink echoing like a countdown to hell.
Blood paints the walls.
My bullets did some of that.
Theirs did the rest.
I’m guessing Marco was doing some sort of trade with Hammerfall when Chekhov stormed in.
We’ll sort it out later.
Right now it’s enough that the man who laid hands on her won’t be getting up again.
What’s left of him isn’t even whole.
He’s missing part of his face.
His head turned so violently with the gunshots that his spine juts out beneath the collar.
His twisted remains are still collapsed against the floor, chest cavity torn open by bullets like I clawed it out myself.
Maybe I did.
I don’t remember the details.
Just the fury.
And her face.
Her whimpers.
Her blood.
I hear sirens in the distance now, the ones coming to help the living and those coming to gather the corpses.
Sigma cleanup will bag and burn what needs to disappear before they even get through traffic.
The medics will tend to Marco and whoever else is still breathing.
I should wait.
Let them see her.
But I’ll drive her to the damn clinic myself.
Kai already put in a call to the Medical Center Sigma International uses with our own house doctors on call.
We’re good at our jobs, but shit happens.
Right now, I don’t care about any of that.
I only care about the woman in my arms.
I’m not letting go.
Not until I get her somewhere safe.
And not until I make her believe the one thing I’m certain of—that I would slit my own throat before I’d ever let her be this frightened again.