Chapter 40
FORTY
DOMINIC
The bar is running like a well-oiled machine for the first time in weeks.
I slide a pint of lager across the scarred wood to a guy I vaguely recognize from the fish processing plant, collect his crumpled bills, and move on to the next customer without breaking stride.
Charging a small cover fee had been an idea and it seems to have worked out well. Derek had pushed back initially, claiming it would piss off our regulars. But five bucks at the door filtered out the riffraff looking for trouble and brought in people actually here for the music.
More importantly, it kept the Sinners out.
I pour a cocktail for a woman dressed for a day of leisure boating who looks like she wandered in on accident. She takes a sip, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.
“This is actually good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
She laughs and drops a twenty in the tip jar, giving me a seductive smile. I move on to the next customer before I’m forced to turn her down directly.
Because I’m not exactly in a relationship technically, but I’m not available either.
At least, not for a few more days.
For the second or third time in the last hour, I’m viscerally reminded of Phoenix in my old room, standing on my bed to sign that poster.
The way her thighs felt under my hands when I steadied her.
The way she’d looked at me when she climbed down, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with something I’d really like to think is interest. The scent of her wrapped around me and lingering in the room even after she flounced away.
Down, boy. She’s so far out of your league you’d need a telescope to see her.
But Atticus’s words from earlier keep circling back. The suggestion that had seemed insane at first and only slightly less insane the more I thought about it.
Three alphas and two omegas.
I don’t want to believe he was saying what it sounded like he was. The idea is ridiculous, so out of the realm of possibility that it isn’t even worth considering.
So why the fuck can’t I stop thinking about it?
“Hey, Dom?”
Mason’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I look up to find him standing at the bar.
“Have you seen Phoenix?”
I pause mid-pour, frowning. “Not since she got off the stage. Why?”
He doesn’t answer, already moving toward the rear exit. I watch him go, more than a little confused.
Not to mention concerned.
I push the feeling aside and return to the customers still waiting. But a few minutes later when there’s a lull at the bar, I’m tempted to follow the urge itching at the back of my mind.
I weave through the crowd toward the front entrance of the bar.
Outside, the street is quiet and basically deserted. A single streetlamp casts a pool of yellow light over the sidewalk, illuminating precisely nothing useful.
No Phoenix.
My gaze drops to the ground, scanning automatically. Cigarette butts from other nights. A crushed beer can. Some kind of wrapper that the wind has plastered against the building’s foundation.
And there—
Something small and white, half-hidden in the shadow where the wall meets the concrete.
I crouch down, fingers closing around the object before my brain fully processes what I’m seeing.
An unlit cigarette. It’s slightly bent, like it was dropped in a hurry rather than discarded deliberately.
I turn it over in my palm. The filter catches the streetlight, and my stomach drops straight through the fucking pavement.
Pink.
The filter is stained with pink lipgloss. The same shade Phoenix was wearing tonight—the same shade she’s been wearing every day since she got here, so omnipresent I’d stopped consciously registering it.
She didn’t finish her cigarette.
She didn’t even light it.
A shiver rolls down my spine that has nothing to do with the October cold. Every instinct I’ve spent years honing—every survival skill learned on the wrong side of the law—screams in unison.
Something is very, very wrong.
I’m back inside before I consciously decide to move. The bar noise crashes over me like a wave, disorienting after the silence of the street. Atticus is still playing. The crowd is still swaying. The world keeps turning like nothing has changed.
But something has.
I spot Mason emerging from the hallway that leads to the back exit. He’s alone. His expression confirms what I already know before he even opens his mouth.
“She’s not out back. I checked everywhere—the alley, the parking lot, even walked down toward the—“
Judah appears at Mason’s shoulder, drawn by some invisible thread of concern. “What’s going on?”
“Phoenix.” The word comes out harder than I intend. “When’s the last time either of you actually saw her?”
They exchange a glance. Mason’s face has gone pale.
“She went outside after the song,” he says. “I offered to go with her, but she said she’d be fine. That was…” He checks his phone. “Almost twenty-five minutes ago.”
The cigarette is still in my fist. I hold it up so they can both see.
“Found this on the sidewalk, right outside the door.”
Mason reaches for it, then stops himself. His hand is shaking. “That’s her color.”
“It’s unlit.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears, clinical in a way that means my brain has shifted into crisis mode. “She went outside to smoke. She had the cigarette. And then something happened before she could light it.”
Judah’s face has gone hard, all that gentle warmth replaced by something sharp and dangerous. “You think something bad happened.”
It’s not a question.
“Judah.” I lock eyes with him, and whatever he sees in my expression makes his jaw clench. “I need you to watch the bar.”
“Dom—”
“Mason.” I turn to find him already vibrating with barely contained energy, ready to bolt. “You follow me.”
“Where?”
“We’re going to check the security footage.”
The cramped space behind the storage room that Derek laughingly calls an office is just large enough for a desk and filing cabinet.
The computer whirs to life with a protesting groan. Mason hovers at my shoulder, close enough that I can feel heat radiating off him, smell the anxiety rolling off his skin in waves.
“Come on, come on…”
The security program loads. Four grainy feeds fill the screen—front entrance, back door, parking lot, and the section of sidewalk directly outside the main windows.
“There.” Mason’s finger jabs at the screen. “That’s the front. Can you rewind it?”
My hand is already on the mouse. I drag the timeline backward, watching the footage play in reverse. People walk backward out of frame. A car un-parks itself from the curb. The shadows lengthen, then shorten, then lengthen again as I search for the right moment.
“Stop.”
Phoenix appears on screen.
She’s leaning against the wall exactly where I found the cigarette, digging through her pockets. The timestamp reads 9:47 PM. Twenty-three minutes ago.
I hit play.
We watch in silence as Phoenix finds her lighter, cups her hand around the flame. The fire flickers to life, illuminating her face for just a moment—
The bar door opens behind her. A figure emerges. Male, based on the build. He’s wearing dark clothing and something that might be a bandana over the lower half of his face.
My hand tightens on the mouse until it cramps.
The figure moves too fast for Phoenix to react. One moment she’s standing there, lighter flame dancing against her cupped palm. The next, a bag is being pulled over her head and she’s yanked off her feet.
“No.” Mason’s voice is barely a whisper. “No, no, no—”
Two more figures appear from somewhere off-camera. They drag her toward the edge of the frame. Toward a dark shape that might be a truck or a van just outside the camera’s range.
And then she’s gone.
Mason makes a sound like someone’s ripped something vital out of his chest. He staggers backward, one hand pressed to his mouth, eyes fixed on the now-empty screen.
I rewind the footage. Play it again. Force myself to watch until I’ve memorized every detail.
The dull sheen on one of the kidnappers’ leather jackets catches the light. I zoom in until the image degrades into blocks of gray and black and not-quite-nothing.
But it’s enough.
The patches on the back are blurry, but I know their shape like I know the layout of this bar.
Like I know the sound of that particular engine at the edge of town.
I’ve been reading those patches from across rooms and parking lots for years, calculating threat levels and exit routes on pure instinct.
The coiled snake. The skull with the crown.
Unmistakable.
I straighten up from the monitor.
“I know who took her.”