OLIVIA
The screams bled through the walls.
With each one, I curled up a little tighter, rocking like a mental patient in the middle of a psychotic break.
What made it worse was Ryle’s total indifference to it all.
He moved around Salvadore’s office like a curious puppy, sniffing this, nudging that.
He’d poured us both a drink from Salvadore’s liquor cabinet, but I was nursing mine, watching the amber liquid slosh around the crystal, thinking of blood.
“What is root canal?” I asked him during a prolonged stretch of silence.
Ryle sank down opposite me, his back against the bookshelves. “It’s a painful but necessary extraction.”
“Oh.”
“Callum, the big sexy redhead, used to be in the Royal Navy.” Ryle adopted a misty smile. “He taught us all these cool code names and phrases.”
“Did he also teach you how to shoot?” My eyes lingered on the gun resting by his knee like a discarded toy. No offense to Ryle, but his overall twitchiness wasn’t what you wanted when holding a loaded weapon.
“Nah. That was Madoc.” Ryle took a hefty swig. “No idea where he learned it. Madoc doesn’t talk about his past. It must’ve been super fucked up, though.”
“Because he’s such a barrel of laughs?”
“More like a trainwreck of trauma.” Ryle saluted me. “Let’s hope we don’t swing too far off the rails.”
I took a sip. The heat scorched down my throat and settled in my stomach. It wasn’t unpleasant, so I took another. Then I returned my attention to the guestbook in my lap, trying to recognize any of the names.
There were hundreds of them.
All printed and dated, going as far back as eight years. Some were recurring, some were foreign with long names, and some had actual suffixes, like Carlisle De Arthur III.
I looked for Molly and was both relieved and disappointed when there were no females listed.
Another wretched scream filled the room.
I squeezed my eyes like I could ignore it. My mind betrayed me like it always did, flashing back to Jax right before he left—the violence in his eyes, the tension in his frame, the deadly promise in the sharpness of his grin.
You dry humped him, my brain reminded me, like the catty bitch she was.
Denial was my friend, and I clung to it now, tuning out the satanic symphony that played on a loop.
Ryle was tipsy and rambling about his vehement dislike of banana-flavored things (“It’s not even based on real bananas anymore! It’s just false advertising!”) when Zola swooped in, sans painting.
She spared me a cold look and perched on the desk, admiring her cuticles like an aloof royal.
“Painting secured,” she said, clearly not talking to me.
Ryle staggered awkwardly to his feet. He opened his mouth, only to be cut off by another gut-wrenching scream. When it was over, he said: “You agree with me, right, Zol?”
“Sure,” she said, not even bothering to ask for clarification.
Ryle turned to me smugly, as if I’d been disputing his very random tirade, when he suddenly went still.
I perked up, instantly alert.
There were no more screams, just a thick, awful silence.
Even Zola froze, her brow scrunching delicately. Then her eyes snapped up to mine, and my stomach sank.
“What is it?” I demanded with a rasp.
Ryle touched his ear, the tiny bud of communication that I wasn’t privy to. Not that I wanted to be. The screams were enough—I definitely didn’t need them in high definition.
“Madoc is finished playing with him,” Zola said, trying and failing to remain nonchalant. “It won’t be long now.”
I sensed there was more to it, especially when Ryle refilled his glass like he was gearing up for a fight.
When he suddenly spluttered into a coughing fit, I knew I’d regret pushing it. “Okay, you need to tell me. What is going on?”
“N-Nothing,” Ryle lied badly while Zola rolled her eyes.
“Madoc broke him.”
“Broke him how?”
Zola smiled, and I cringed at the sight of it. “He blabbed. You won’t like what he said, Nancy Drew.”
A terrible part of me was counting on it.
Zola slipped off the desk. “Come along, then. Let’s dig up those skeletons in the basement.”
At my visibly paling face, Ryle offered me the rest of his drink. I gulped it down without thinking, then coughed until my lungs stopped burning. “I thought you checked the basement,” I forced out.
Ryle scowled. “Turns out, we missed a doozy.”
The trip to the basement was quick and daunting. I kept the guestbook clutched to my chest like a cursed teddy bear. At one point, my sneakers squelched on the stairs, and I glanced down in horror at the trail of fresh blood.
Of course.
Of course, the blood led to the creepy basement.
I lost my nerve right near the bottom, unable to cross the short hallway into the unknown. I could hear voices, notably Jax and his deep rasp, and I wasn’t ready to face him.
“You can stay here,” Ryle said kindly, offering me a way out. Zola huffed impatiently and shouldered past me.
“I just need a second.” And more whisky. Lots more.
“You’re scared,” Ryle observed, cocking his head. “Me too.”
“You are?”
“And hungry. And a little drunk.” He grinned sheepishly. “You just have to push through it. Learn to keep going.” He made a rolling motion with his hand. “The river will twist and turn, but it keeps going forward.”
My brows pinched together. “That’s…inspiring.”
His eyes brightened. “I fucking know. And to think, Jax wants to revoke my cookie privileges. I’m basically Gandhi.”
Unbelievably, I did feel a little better.
The feeling returned to my legs, and I pushed forward, striding into the basement before I could chicken out.
Only to be immediately set upon by Jax, who swooped in front of me and blocked my entrance.
“Stop,” he said.
I blinked up at him, adjusting to the low light.
He wasn’t wearing his mask, the material bunched under his chin, and his expression was tense, his eyes too wide, the blue dark and unreadable.
His hair was stuck with sweat to his cheeks and temples.
I continued downwards, unable to stop myself—his t-shirt was soaked to his torso, with either sweat or blood (god, I hoped it was the former), and his arms were bulging with tension, all the way down to his slightly trembling fists.
His knuckles were bruised and bloodied, and that did something to me.
My stomach whooshed.
Not in a bad way, but in a totally inappropriate, borderline crashing out kind of way.
I was not attracted to men who punched walls, chain-smoked, and wore ripped jeans and discolored boots.
I was not. I was not. I was not.
“You should wait outside,” Jax said, in his usual patronizing way. “For your own good.”
“Why?” I shot back. “Did you kill him?”
His brow ticked up, the very faint scar on his cheek tugging at the movement. “So what if I did?”
I gulped. “I didn’t ask for that.”
He shrugged. “You don’t have to like my methods. They’re effective. I got what you wanted.”
My stomach twisted in fear. I tried to glance around him to the others, but his huge body blocked my view. I shoved his chest half-heartedly. His heart was steady and strong beneath my palm.
“He’s not dead,” he said, sounding disappointed by the fact. “But I will kill him. Probably. First, we got some show-and-tell.”
“Please move,” I said. At his stubborn expression, I scowled. “I can handle it. I’m not going to break down now.”
“We’ll see.”
His lack of confidence in me stung. I tried to ignore the tightness in my chest as he stepped aside, and I got my first real glimpse at the basement.
It was…underwhelming.
Not the haunted, cabin-in-the-woods I expected—there were no creepy mannequins or suspicious moving dolls or cursed mirrors.
It was basically empty, with a low wood-paneled ceiling, some whiskey barrels in the corners, and a wall of wine bottles slotted into built-in brackets.
A dusty tusk chandelier offered tepid light, just enough to make out the naked figure hunched on the floor.
A high-pitched noise escaped me before I could stop it. Jax’s rumbling laugh answered beside me. “Fucker doesn’t deserve your pity.”
I said nothing as I stepped toward the bleeding man, trying to be quiet so I didn’t spook him. It didn’t work. He flinched at my approach, his head snapping up, and glared at me from a mangled face.
I froze at the flash in his eyes. It was fleeting, a mere second before it was replaced with panic.
Did he recognize me?
My heart iced over. Not me. Molly. We looked similar enough that people used to mistake us.
Slowly, I turned and faced Jax again. He smirked back at me, all insufferable and smug.
“Molly,” was all I managed.
He nodded.
I felt no triumph at the confirmation, no bitter victory. I went numb, my fingers tightening on the edges of the guestbook pressed to my chest. Our hostage watched me with nervous eyes, which widened in fear when he realized what I was holding.
Strike two.
“H-How did you g-get that?” He stammered out.
I ignored his question and leaned down, bringing my face close to his.
His nose was mangled, bloodied, and swollen between his cheekbones.
His eyes flickered over my face, mapping it with dawning horror.
I sensed movement to my left and, without looking, knew it was Madoc.
The man trembled, his gaze flickering left, his lip wobbling.
“Please,” he whispered to me. “P-Please d-don’t let them kill me.”
I held up the guestbook. “Explain this to me, and I’ll consider it.
” I was lying. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop Jax or Madoc.
The evidence of their unleashed brutality was staring me in the face.
I couldn’t tell which damage belonged to Madoc and which to Jax—they obviously tag-teamed it. Took turns.
The thought made my insides woosh again. Down girl. Jesus.
Between hiccup and sobs, the broken man explained how guests signed the book on arrival to the island, and how they pricked their fingers and pressed it to their names, ensuring their silence if they ever tried to speak out.
When I asked rather reluctantly why their silence was so important, he broke down until he was near incoherent, and only Madoc’s looming presence made him talk.
I listened in hollow silence at the girls he scouted on behalf of his bosses, the way he’d drug them and smuggle them onto the island, the month-long orgies, the disposal once they were done.
“W-We don’t k-kill them,” he sobbed, like that made it better somehow.
“T-they get paid, and some even agree to come back.”
“Because you break them,” I said in a hollow whisper. “You make them forget. You brainwash them.”
“No,” he denied vehemently.
I stepped back, my jaw clenched so tight that I tasted metal. A hungry, vicious anger swirled in my gut. I wanted to break him. I wanted to hurt him, tear him apart, rip him limb from limb. I saw it vividly, and it didn’t scare me, not like I thought it should.
Was this how Ryle felt when he bludgeoned his father to death?
My face tilted up, finding him. He was standing by Callum, his arms folded, his face dark.
My gaze slipped to each of them, even Zola, who was tucked into Nate’s side as he swayed on his feet.
I knew they understood, and I was suddenly grateful they were here.
I skimmed over Madoc, who was always watching, and looked at Jax, my heart thumping wildly.
“You can kill him now.”
Jax searched my face, then grinned. “I’ll get right on that.”
“Not yet,” Madoc said. “It’s just getting interesting.”
What more was there? I swallowed dryly, not sure if I could handle it. Jax nodded at Callum, who stepped forward and easily hefted the bloodied man to his feet. His nudity shocked me, his bits and bobbles hanging out, his chest streaked with blood and thighs stained with—
My nose wrinkled, and I turned into Jax’s chest. “Gross.”
His hand settled on my lower back.
“No more delays,” he said, his voice hardening, making my insides flutter. “Show us what’s behind the wall.”
“P-Please.”
Jax gestured to Madoc, who gave the naked man a small mocking wave, my knife clutched between his fingers. I made an affronted sound, and Madoc’s mouth hitched in an evil smile. The asshole.
“Either you do what we want, or green eyes over here will happily cut off your dick and balls.”
Happily being the key word, judging by the manic gleam in Madoc’s eyes. I searched the walls, wondering what the hell could be behind them. Was it some kind of secret wing? A bat cave?
The man quivered as he was frog-marched over to the wine wall.
Callum loosened one arm just enough so that the man could reach out and twist one bottle like a doorknob in disguise.
There was a great shudder, a long groan like a sealed crypt being opened after many decades, and the whole wall swung forward.
I stumbled over eagerly, nearly tripping over my own feet. A damp, rank smell infiltrated the space. I froze as the wall kept opening, revealing a wide-arched entrance.
“Oh my god.” My breath caught in my chest.