Chapter 18 #3
The guy in the glasses cuts in. “I think the threat to the girl is growing by the second. We found supplies for a kidnapping at the location that went dark.”
I nod once. I’ve thought that too.
Archibald turns to me again. “And you’ve been chasing this for how long?”
“Since sophomore year.”
“Does she know that?”
“No.”
He gives a low laugh. “Jesus, Hayden.”
I shrug. “Does it matter?”
“It does if she finds out.”
“She won’t.”
He doesn’t press, but I can feel the judgment. Doesn’t bother me—Archibald’s the last person in the world who gets to lecture me about secrets.
The guy scrolls the map again. “There’s one more thing,” he says. “Three nights ago, the movement stopped. Suddenly. Like someone shut it down.”
That’s when the letter arrived. I don’t say it out loud. But I know what that timing means. He’s on the move, and Martine’s on a clock. A muscle in my jaw jumps, and I clench my teeth. The only one allowed to hurt her is me.
We’re back on the plane before the sun’s down.
Archibald’s quiet until the cabin door seals shut and the engines fire. Then he turns in his seat, facing me full-on. Shooting me the same look he gives people right before he breaks their fingers for information.
“Alright,” he says. “Start talking.”
I don’t respond right away. Pour myself a drink—ice clinks. I take a sip.
He waits.
I let him.
“You don’t just chase ghosts, Hayden. You’re methodical. You don’t care unless it’s necessary. And this, ” he gestures toward the folder, the frost on the windows, the dead-end coordinates, “this is you caring. So I want to know why.”
I look at him. “The Society gave me the assignment two years ago. Said there was intel buried deep in the Huntington-Russell bloodline, something we missed. They weren’t specific. Just told me to follow anything tied to Martine’s mother.”
“That was probably easy considering she was the most outrageous socialite.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Except she wasn’t as transparent as they thought. Turns out she had a connection to Marchand.”
Archie tilts his head. “That name sounds familiar.”
“It should. Marchand owns Club Seraphim.”
He whistles. “The one Dex always went to?”
“Yeah, the private one. Invitation only.”
“And her mother was going there?”
“With Henri,” I say. “Regularly.”
Archie leans back, lips parted like he’s about to say something, but can’t decide whether to mock me or take it seriously.
I keep going.
“The name Marchand was given to me by the Brotherhood. They said to dig. So I did. Marchand used to be a handler, low-level when he started his club, but involved in blackmail networks and surveillance. Seraphim is leverage. We’ve actually met him a few times, you and I, casually, of course. ”
Archibald nods slowly. “Compromising material.”
“Exactly. And I think whatever material it is, it's why Martine is in danger.”
I nod. “I didn’t believe it at first. But every path I’ve followed has pointed to something darker happening here. Especially with her uncle, Douglass.”
Archie frowns. “You still think the uncle’s behind it all?”
“I know he is,” I say. “The deeper I dig, the more he shows up. Quietly. Covering things up, freezing assets, pulling favors from people we were trained never to touch.”
“And now he’s contesting Martine’s inheritance?”
“Yeah.”
“And threatening her life.”
I nod once.
He sits with that for a second.
“She’s not stupid, Hayden.”
“No,” I say. “She’s not. That’s why I have to handle this.”
He looks at me. Really looks. “Is this about love, or control?”
I take another sip of vodka. “Does it matter?” This isn’t the conversation I want to have. I can’t even have it with myself. When I think about her and I’m not near, I feel a horribly empty feeling in my stomach. I can’t focus when I feel it.
I start toying with the signet ring on my pinky, trying to clear my head of the swarming thoughts.
“It might in the end.”
I stare him down. “He threatened her. I don’t give a damn if he’s hiding in the Carpathians or buried under a Russian alias, I’ll find him and I’ll fucking kill him with my bare hands.”
Archibald lifts both brows. “Possessive.”
I meet his gaze. “Focused.”
He leans back, exhaling through his nose. “So what now? We knock on Marchand’s club door and ask if he remembers what Martine’s mom wore to the orgy?”
I smile. “Yep.”
Archibald snorts. “If that’s what it takes.”
There’s a silence, then.
Not tension. Just understanding.
Archibald finishes his drink and says, “In the future, remind me to marry someone boring with less baggage. Like a schoolteacher.”
I smirk. “You’d corrupt her in a week.”
He grins. “That’s the dream.”
Outside, night falls. The hunt’s still on, but I can feel the net closing.
Douglass Huntington-Russell is no longer running. He’s hiding for a reason, and I’m going to find out why.
Luckily, I have a long flight back to New York to think about it.
After a long nap and a few too many vodkas passed between us, we were ready to land.
Standing on a random street in Manhattan, Seraphim is easy to miss. Just a black door between two quiet buildings, no sign, no sound. You don’t walk in unless you’ve been invited, and even then, they’re watching you long before you reach the buzzer.
Inside, the air changes, cleaner, colder, heavy with the scent of candle wax. You can smell the money: dim lighting, velvet curtains, a front reception desk with a woman who doesn’t smile. We give our names, no one repeats them.
Security clears us fast. They already know who we are.
We’re led to one of the private mirrored lounges. Marchand is already there. Two women draped over him, one in his lap, the other tucked against his shoulder, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Both gorgeous and desperate for his attention. They aren’t getting it.
He sees us and doesn’t move right away.
“Still enjoy the theatrics, huh?” I say.
Marchand lifts his glass and finally waves the women off with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Give us a minute.”
They peel off of him without protest and slip out of the room. The door shuts again.
Marchand straightens his collar, rolls his shoulders like he’s settling into something more formal.
Archibald drops into the seat across from him. I stay standing.
“You still have the ring?” I ask.
Marchand grins. “Always.”
He taps the silver band on his right hand, a bones signet, same as mine and Archibald’s. But his is older, more worn. He graduated almost twenty years before our initiation.
“You're always this talkative with your brothers?” I ask.
“Only the ones who don’t bore me.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m not here to catch up.”
Marchand pours three drinks. “I figured.”
“Douglas Huntington-Russell,” I say, taking the chair opposite him.
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes narrow just a touch. “That wasn’t a name I was expecting to hear. You’ve been digging.”
“Deeper than most.”
“You always did like to overachieve,” he says.
“And you always liked to deflect.”
He grins and doesn’t deny it. We’ve partied a few times together, and I don’t totally hate him.
“He’s a member of the club,” Marchand finally says. “Suite 3A. But he hasn’t shown in over seven months.”
“Alone?”
“Always. Never brought guests unless he was with his brother, only ever requesting services.”
“Still in the system?”
Marchand nods.
Archibald leans in. “You liked him?”
“No,” Marchand says, “Guy's a creep, regret letting him in, actually, but I didn’t have much of a choice. He’s a founder.”
“I’m aware,” I say.
“Sure,” Marchand replies. “But Douglass? He’s a powerful asshole.”
We all take a drink.
I lean forward. “What about his brother Henri?”
Marchand exhales through his nose. “Regular. Obsessive. Always brought the wife to be used. Weird man.”
“And?”
“He made her perform,” Marchand says bluntly. “Multiple partners. He watched from the corner, as if taking notes. Sometimes she complied. Sometimes she didn’t.”
“And Douglass?”
“Never in the room. But he was around. Always close. They’d talk afterward, in the bar. Quiet conversations. Like Douglass was managing it.”
Archie speaks up. “You think he approved of what was happening?”
“I think he orchestrated it,” Marchand replies. “But distantly. So he could pretend he wasn’t involved.”
Typical Bones play. Get the result, keep your hands clean.
I nod in understanding.
In the Brotherhood, wives don’t get protected. They get absorbed, ignored, or replaced.
I knock back the contents of my drink, suddenly eager to be home. “I appreciate the talk, it’s been enlightening.”
Marchand stands, done.
I rise with him. “Why are you helping?”
He pauses at the door. "While my morals may be in short supply, unlike the majority of Bonesmen, I don't hate women."
He gives me one last look. “And because you’re the only one stupid enough to go after him.”
Then he leaves.
Archie finishes his drink and whistles low.
“So, our little sex-club brother hates our target, hates our target’s brother, and doesn’t particularly like us either. Sounds cozy.”
“Let’s go,” I say, already moving.
I should be focused.
I’ve got a thousand things that need my attention, calls, intel, a file sitting in the seat beside me that could ruin a man’s life with one signature.
But all I can think about is her.
She’s in my head. Like smoke. Like rot.
I left her exactly where she belongs, passed out in my bed. And still, she haunts me. Her scent. Her voice. The way her lip trembles.
She should’ve been a novelty. Something beautiful I could bend and break and discard when I was done.
But I can’t stop.
I try to push her out, I do, but she seeps back in, filling the spaces between thoughts, wrapping around my discipline like vines.
I hate it. I hate her for it. For making me want to go faster, for making my hands tighten on the wheel—like getting back to her a few seconds sooner might let me breathe again.
The car won’t move fast enough.