Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SASHA
My footsteps are light and calculated as I move down the hallway. Every shadow feels like it’s watching me, every creak of the wooden floorboards beneath my boots like a gunshot in the stillness. The blueprint of this place is burned into my memory, but even so, I tread carefully. One wrong turn, one misstep, and this rescue mission turns into a massacre—though I’m not against that if it comes to it.
The nest room is empty. I stand at the door for a moment, scanning the space, but it’s quiet—too quiet. No sign of Flynn, not even the faintest trace of his scent. Where the fuck do they have him? The thought pulses through my mind as I turn back toward the hallway, my chest tightening.
The closer I get, the heavier the air feels. The walls seem to close in, the shadows stretching and twisting like they’re alive. The hallway narrows, the soft glow of light spilling from the room ahead.
Then the smell hits—a gross mix of old fries, mothballs, and gym socks. It’s thick, like it’s soaked into the walls, and it makes my stomach turn.
My chest tightens. That’s it. The master bedroom.
I pause just before reaching it, pressing my back to the wall to steady myself. There are no sounds, no voices, just the faint rhythm of my own breathing and the pounding of my heart in my ears. I ease forward, my fingers tightening around the hilt of my blade.
And there he is.
Strapped to the spanking bench, his body exposed and vulnerable, clad only in briefs.
Flynn.
His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths, his skin a contrast to the black silk sheets that reek of sin and control. His shirt is gone, his briefs low on his hips, but it’s the bruises that stop me in my tracks. Purple splotches, angry red welts, and fading yellow marks paint a story I can’t bear to read. My throat tightens as the scent of rotten oranges fills the room.
What have they done to you?
He hasn't seen me yet. His head lolls to the side, his eyes glazed, but I catch the flicker of awareness when his gaze locks onto mine. Recognition. Relief. Then confusion.
“Sandy?” His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but it slices through the suffocating silence like a blade.
The name stops me cold for a fraction of a second, the wrongness of it stinging like an insult. My grip tightens on my blade as I step closer to the bed, my eyes locking with his. His face is pale, drawn, his eyes glassy with confusion and exhaustion.
“Not Sandy,” I correct, my voice low. “It’s Sasha. Sandy was a fake name I gave the shit-stain Alpha who did this to you.”
Realization flashes in his eyes, followed quickly by shame. He lowers his gaze, the thin chains binding his wrists clinking faintly as he shifts. “Sasha,” he repeats, the word soft, tentative, as if it might vanish if he says it too loudly.
“I’m here,” I say, softer this time, my voice steadying. “I’m here, Flynn.”
And then I notice them—the two bodies sprawled across the bed to the side. Andrew and Bart, their postures languid, limbs tangled in a grotesque display of ownership. Their breathing is slow and deep, the rhythm of people lost in sleep. I can see it now: they felt untouchable, secure in their control over him.
Mistake.
My vision tunnels, everything narrowing to the two of them. The fury inside me roars to life, a wildfire that consumes every rational thought. My pulse slows, each beat deliberate, and I let the rage take the reins.
I don’t hesitate. The blade is already in my hand, my fingers still tight around the hilt. Flynn’s eyes widen when he sees it, his pupils blown in terror. He gasps, the sound sharp in the air.
I cut my eyes to him, narrowing them in warning. My finger presses to my lips, a silent command for him to keep quiet. We already risked waking them with our introductions, but I didn’t notice them—my thoughts too clouded by my omega strapped to this fucking bench, the rotten stench of his despair clinging to the air like mold. His jaw tightens, and he closes his eyes tight, his lips pressing into a thin line. He doesn’t say another word.
The blade in my hand feels weightless as I close the distance to Bart. He doesn’t stir, oblivious to the danger until it’s far too late. My blade finds his throat, sliding deep and true. His eyes snap open, his hands clawing at his throat as his body spasms, but his struggle is fleeting. Blood bursts forth in hot, arterial sprays, painting the silk sheets, the walls, and even me. I twist the blade once, ensuring the job is done, before yanking it free.
Beside him, Andrew stirs, sluggish at first. Then his eyes snap open.
“What the—” he growls, his hand darting under the pillow. A weapon.
I lunge before he can grab it, straddling his torso and slamming his wrist against the headboard. His knife clatters to the floor. He thrashes beneath me, stronger than I expected for such a scrawny alpha, and bucks his hips hard, throwing me off. I hit the floor, landing against Bart’s still-warm body, his blood soaking into my clothes.
Andrew scrambles up from the bed, his face twisted in fury. “You’ve got no idea who you’re messing with!”
“Oh, I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I snap. He lunges for me, but I twist sideways instead of ducking, throwing him off balance. As he stumbles, I slash the blade across his forearm. Blood sprays, and he howls, clutching the wound.
“You bitch!” he spits, his voice ragged, but there’s fear in his eyes now.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice cold. “That’s me.”
Desperation makes him reckless. He charges, but I sidestep smoothly, angling behind him, and drive my blade deep between his ribs. A guttural sound tears from his throat as his body stiffens. He collapses forward onto the plush carpet, twitching once before going still. Blood pools beneath him.
The only sound left is my own ragged breathing. Then, a voice—hoarse, trembling.
“Sasha… what did you do?”
I wipe the blade clean on the corner of the blood-soaked sheet and take a step back. There’s no regret, no hesitation in my movements. This was necessary. I turn to him, my heart pounding, and see the look on his face—wide eyes filled with shock, his body tense as if he’s trying to shrink away from the scene.
“I handled it,” I say, keeping my voice steady even though adrenaline still courses through me. “He wasn’t going to let me take you.”
Flynn shakes his head slowly, his gaze flickering between Andrew’s lifeless body and me. “You killed him. Just like that.”
I step closer, my movements deliberate, keeping my blade low. “He deserved worse for what he did to you.”
Flynn swallows hard, his throat bobbing. “You didn’t hesitate.”
“No,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not for you.”
I turn toward the dresser, catching a glint of metal in the dim light. The key. “Stay still,” I murmur, my boots silent against the carpet as I cross the room.
The key feels cool against my palm as I pick it up and return to him. His wrists are raw, the skin rubbed bloody from the straps, and a fresh wave of rage surges through me. I kneel by the bench, sheathing the knife, and reach out. He flinches, his whole body jerking, another wave of rotten citrus filling the air, but I only touch his arm, a grounding gesture.
“You’re safe now,” I whisper.
I force my hands to steady as I fit the key into the lock, the mechanism clicking open with a metallic clink.
His eyes open slowly, glistening with unshed tears, and he meets my gaze. Terror still lingers in his wide eyes, but there's something else too—a flicker of understanding, or maybe surrender. He slumps, his body weakened from being held in the restraints. I catch him, my arms going around him to support his trembling form.
“Is there anything you need from this place?” I ask, my voice low but urgent. “Anything at all?”
He hesitates, his gaze flickering toward the door, then back to me. “Just one thing.”
“Show me.”
I help him to his feet, his arm draped over my shoulders for support. His steps are unsteady, his body swaying, but he pushes forward. He leads me to a small closet tucked in the corner of the room, its door barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through.
Inside, he reaches for a single item: a framed photograph. He holds it with trembling hands, his fingers brushing over the glass. The image is of a teenage girl, her smile radiant and carefree. Her hair cascades in waves, her eyes bright with innocence.
“Who is she?” I ask softly, unable to take my eyes off the picture.
“My little sister,” Flynn says, his voice breaking. “She’s an omega. She’s the reason I—” He stops, his jaw tightening as his throat works. “They held her over my head, Sasha. They said if I didn’t comply... if I didn’t do what they wanted...” His voice trails off, his grip on the frame tightening.
I reach out, cupping his face in my hands. He flinches at first, but I don’t pull back. My thumb brushes over his cheek, a gentle reassurance in the chaos.
“They can’t now,” I tell him, my voice firm, a promise carved into stone. “I made sure of it.”
His eyes search mine, and for a moment, I see the raw vulnerability he’s trying to hide. He nods, a small, tentative motion, and I know he wants to believe me.
“We need to move,” I say, releasing him but keeping a steadying hand on his arm. “Can you walk?”
He straightens, his shoulders squaring despite the pain etched into his features. “Yeah.”
Together, we step over the body on the floor and leave the room. I feel no guilt, no regret. These were monsters who thrived on control and suffering. They don’t deserve mercy. My only regret is that I couldn’t make them suffer longer.
Flynn clutches the photo tightly, his sister’s smile shining through the glass, a fragile beacon of hope. For her, for him, I’ll do whatever it takes to end this nightmare the Foundation has caused.
And I’ll make damn sure no one ever uses them as leverage again.