OLIVIA
As much as I loathed to admit it, Madoc was good at what he did. Even if what he did was commit cold-blooded murder and taunt pretty girls like me for kicks.
I watched him from my new post in the tree as he stood behind the dunes, his gun silenced and steady.
He shot the first man when he stepped too close to Madoc’s hiding spot.
The man went down silently, blood splattering, then oozing between his eyes.
The sight was somehow less disturbing in night vision, as if I were far removed from its reality.
Madoc zipped forward and dragged the body by its feet behind the dune, out of sight. Then he searched the body, quickly and efficiently.
“Stealing his candy?” My mouth spoke before my brain, my voice weaker than it should be.
Madoc didn’t look up at me, but I felt his glare all the same.
Movement caught my eye, another man beelining directly toward Madoc. “Incoming,” I said, twisting my lens. “He’s seen the tracks, Sparrow—what are you doing?”
Instead of hiding, as I expected, Madoc popped up like a whack-a-mole, giving the man a half-second of shock before he raised his gun. Madoc used that split second to shoot him between the eyes. His accuracy was impressive, even if it made my stomach roll uncomfortably.
Two down, six to go.
“That was risky,” I said, my body running hot, my thighs sweating where they straddled the branch.
“Shut up.”
I did.
Watching Madoc drag the second body was oddly calming, which I knew was my brain’s weird way of coping. Protecting itself. I’d never seen someone die before, and now I’d seen two in the last few minutes. They were piling up in my subconscious, tucked in the corner like skeletons in the attic.
My gaze snapped to the boat, where voices began to shout and gesture. “Sparrow.”
“I know.” There was no fear in his voice, just flat determination. I understood why Jax relied on him so much—the world could end, and Madoc would still be as solid, as immovable, reliable.
Safe.
I shook my head at the thought. Ridiculous. Madoc was clearly an unfeeling killer, remorseless and cold.
Callum’s voice crackled deep and startling in my ear. “Two down. One escaped. Comin’ your way, Alpha.”
My lungs seized. The communication signal was poor so far from the mansion, but the odd snippet still got through.
I told myself to tune it out, focus only on Madoc.
I ignored the needling concern that pressed on my edges—the image of Jax, bloodied and shot, sprawled like those corpses at Madoc’s feet—and shoved them away with the rest of my unwelcome ghosts.
I exhaled when Jax’s voice broke through a few minutes later: “Clear.”
I watched the boat, tracking the disorder of the armed men as they started to suspect something was amiss. They no longer approached the treeline, and I knew that was a bad sign. Madoc crouched low again, his breathing steady in my ears, so I matched it with my own.
It was us against them. Despite my vehement dislike of Madoc, I didn’t want him to die. He needed me, even though he’d hate to admit it, and being needed felt good. I was powerless in so many other ways, in so many things, but not in this.
Clearing my throat, keeping my voice low and soothing, I gave Madoc my eyes. “They’re nervous. Hovering near the boat. One of them is pointing toward the mansion—they’re probably clued in to the ambush.”
Madoc didn’t speak, didn’t give me any acknowledgment. However, when I shot a glance at him, his face was turned down, as if listening intently.
“One of them is turning to the boat. There must be…must be someone else in there, someone I can’t see. They’re talking.” I narrowed my lens, trying to see into the cabin of the yacht. “Ma—Sparrow, what’s the plan? We’re outnumbered.”
I didn’t expect Madoc to reply—I was merely voicing my concerns aloud, just in case he needed to consider them. But Madoc surprised me by answering in a clipped voice: “We need to draw them out.”
“Okay. Sure. Cool. What did you have in mind?”
Madoc paused, then said: “You.”
I blinked down at him blankly. “Me?”
“Pretty girls are distracting.”
I ignored the rush of warmth that gave me. Coming from Madoc, it was probably intended as an insult.
“You can cry and play victim. Or you can scream. Choose one. Draw them out.”
I shifted on the branch and stared at the armed men, the monsters on the shoreline. “And if they shoot me on sight?”
“Bad luck for you.”
I huffed in annoyance. “And what are you going to do while I’m bleeding out on the beach?”
“I’m going to make them pay.”
Not exactly the most comforting plan.
I wondered if Madoc saw value in my life—enough that he would actually regret it if I died—but I decided not to prod too hard at that thought.
Carefully, I climbed down the tree, awkward and clunky with all my gear.
On the ground, I dumped my backpack and goggles, hesitating for a moment before I removed my tactical vest. I knew Jax would hate what I was about to do.
He’s not here, my mind said, sounding oddly enough like Madoc. Focus on here.
“Okay,” I said, voice dry but steady. “I’m ready. I’ll start screaming.”
I took two steps out from the treeline, sinking into the soft sand.
I purposely didn’t look over at Madoc, who was invisible to my straining eyes, and paused, testing my throat.
When I was confident I wouldn’t shred my vocal cords, I unleashed a high, ringing scream before stumbling out into plain view.
Immediately, men’s voices pitched over toward me, demanding and full of threats. A light flashed over me, and I winced, raising my hands pitifully. With a gentle squeeze, I unleashed the welling tears that tracked down my cheeks.
Boots pounded across the sand. I allowed my shoulders to slump, despite the tension in my frame, the instinctive urge to clamp up and hide. Run. Madoc is right there, I told myself firmly as they descended on me. He probably won’t let them hurt you.
“Who the fuck are you?” The voice was rough and heavily accented. A hand gripped my arm hard enough to bruise and shook me. “Got away, huh? Thought you’d make a break for it? Das pena.”
Hot rank breath washed over my face. “Please,” I begged softly. “Let me go.”
“Agh, pathetic.” A second hand gripped my ponytail and yanked it back so hard I saw sparks. Multiple faces leered at me from above.
“This one pretty,” another voice piped in, and fingers brushed against my side, probing. My stomach lurched sickeningly. “Bring her to the boat, si? With the others?”
There was a beat, and I saw a flicker in the corner of my eye, near the dunes. Madoc.
“Wait!” I exploded, and the movement stopped; the men paused, startled at my outburst. “Yes,” I said in a raspy, desperate voice. I hoped, prayed, Madoc was listening. “Yes, please, take me to the boat.”
Let them take me, I pleaded to myself. I knew it was unlikely Madoc would receive my message, but as I was marched down to the water, there was no sign of him.
Not until his voice ghosted in my ear: “Idiot.”
I bit back a miserable smile.
Madoc needed my eyes, and we needed to know how many were in the boat.
They’d mentioned others—Other men? Other girls?
I knew it was stupid and reckless, and probably going to end with a bullet in my brain.
But I was too far in it now. Everything that had happened—the tunnels, the secrets, Jax—it all led to this moment.
I was herded across the narrow dock and onto the yacht.
The hands were unyielding, calloused, and punishing as they thrust me downwards, my sneakers fumbling over the stairs.
The yacht was absurdly decadent, with fine-fingered chandeliers and warm gold accents, shiny hardwood floors that squeaked beneath me.
I was forced down a short hallway, passing three closed doors, to the last door at the end.
The men didn’t bother knocking and shoved me inside like a stray animal thrown into a cage.
The room was dimly lit, the bulbs covered in grime, just like the tunnels.
It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust—for the panic to recede enough for my brain to switch back online.
When it did, I stared numbly at the space in front of me, the upturned faces, the haunted eyes, the careful stillness.
The room was bare except for the single bed in the middle, which was pointedly untouched.
The girls sat on the floor around it, hugging their knees.
Fear, sweat, and unwashed bodies tainted the air. I nearly choked on it. With my back against the door, I used the pressure to ground myself. The girls didn’t react except for their empty, lifeless stares.
“Talk to me.” Madoc’s voice was blunt but breathless, as if he were running. I wondered if he was already on the yacht.
I barely moved my lips. “More girls in the cabin. Four of them.”
“Men?”
“I don’t know. I passed three closed doors, so there could be more inside.”
“Windows?”
I blinked, frowning. “What?”
“Can you get them out?” Madoc bit out in frustration. “Windows? Air vents?”
I looked around, taking in the dry, windowless room no bigger than the bathroom in my dorm. “No.” The word was laced with despair.
“I’m coming.”
Distantly, I heard the sound of more gunshots, but it was like we were underwater.
The girls didn’t even flinch. They were so still, so quiet, even their blinking looked coordinated.
I tried to summon up some words of comfort, but my throat felt raw.
I settled for an overly big smile that hurt my cheeks.
When all they did was stare at me, I gave up and listened for Madoc.
A loud thump at my back made us all jolt.
I instantly recoiled as the door opened behind me. Long, sinister shadows stretched across the floor.
“No one move.”
The words—the voice—hit me like a physical blow to my chest. I was tucked behind the door, unseen by the intruder, but it didn’t matter. My body reacted, disconnecting so quickly that I felt like I was floating, up, up, and away.
Shock, my brain supplied helpfully, right before it went silent.
The new intruder stepped into the room, dressed in all black, clutching a gun with thin, quivering fingers.
Her hair, once a warm blonde, was lifeless and greasy, balled up in a messy bun with strands stuck to her neck.
Her skin was sallow and bruised, her frame so bony that it jutted beneath her too-big clothes.
When she turned, sensing the unfamiliar presence in the room, our eyes locked—grey blue, lifeless, hazy.
Gone.
Her name stuttered out from my lips. “M-Molly?”