Chapter 7
seven
Elijah
The warehouse comes into view without me really registering the drive that got us there, the city bleeding out behind us in a blur of lights and empty streets that never once settle into anything I can hold onto, because the only thing that stays clear is the video looping behind my eyes in a way that refuses to dull.
Her on the ground.
The angle of her body.
The stillness.
And then the hand.
Not rushed, not careless, but slow in a way that suggests time, control, intention, fingers moving through her hair like he could take as long as he wanted, like there was no risk in it, like he knew exactly what that image would do once it reached me.
He wanted me to see it.
Not just that he has her.
But that he can touch her.
That he already has.
The thought doesn’t spike into anger the way it should.
It settles.
Lower.
Deeper.
Into something that doesn’t burn through and disappear, something that stays and builds and tightens the longer it sits there, turning over into something heavier than rage and harder to contain.
By the time the car door opens, there isn’t any space left for anything else.
The air inside the warehouse hits cold, carrying the scent of oil and metal, but it barely registers as more than pressure shifting around me as I walk in, the sound of our footsteps stretching out across the concrete.
Killian is there.
So is one of Christian’s men.
And the man in the chair lifts his head the second we step into the space, his expression tightening, then twisting into something sharper as he looks between us.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,” he says, the words too loud, too confident. “You’re starting something you can’t come back from.”
It passes through me without catching.
Because whatever this becomes, I’m not going back from it.
Christian steps forward first, his voice even, controlled, still trying to hold this inside something structured.
“Let’s keep this simple,” he says. “Where is she?”
The man scoffs, shifting slightly in the chair, testing the restraints like he still believes he has room to move inside this.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Christian doesn’t react.
“Lia,” he clarifies. “You know who we’re asking about.”
The man leans back as much as he can, his mouth curving into something that sits too close to amusement.
“I don’t know any Lia.”
Killian moves before the words finish settling, his fist connecting cleanly, snapping the man’s head to the side.
The sound carries.
The man laughs through it.
Blood gathering at his lip, his tongue dragging across it like it’s nothing.
“You drag me in here for some chick?” he says. “There’s plenty more out there.”
Killian hits him again.
Harder.
The chair shifts against the concrete.
“Watch your mouth,” Killian says.
The man spits blood to the side, still smiling.
“I’m telling you,” he says, looking past him now, like this still isn’t real to him, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Christian steps in again.
“Think carefully,” he says. “Because this is the point where you decide how this goes for you.”
The man grins through the blood.
“Or what?”
Killian answers that with another hit.
Then another.
Force meeting resistance.
Again.
Again.
The pattern settles in quickly, and just as quickly I know what it is.
Useless.
Not because it isn’t hurting him.
Because it isn’t changing anything. Because this man still thinks this is something he can endure.
Because nothing in this room yet has told him otherwise.
I watch it longer than I need to. Long enough to feel the space where something should shift, and doesn’t. Long enough for that pressure under my skin to settle into something else.
Something quieter.
More deliberate.
If he can sit through this, then this isn’t enough.
I step forward.
“Stop.”
Killian pulls back immediately.
The man lifts his head again, breathing heavier now, blood marking his mouth, his chin, his shirt, his eyes finally locking onto mine properly.
I hold his gaze.
And for a second, I see it, the moment where he tries to read me. To decide what I am in this room.
How far this goes.
How much he needs to give.
He’s waiting.
Measuring.
Still thinking this is something he can control.
I glance past him toward the workbench, the layout of it registering without effort, metal, edges, tools that don’t need explanation.
Options.
My hand closes around one of the knives.
The weight settles into my palm easily.
When I turn back, his expression has shifted.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But something closer to it.
I step closer until there’s no space left between us.
“Where is my wife.”
The words come out quieter this time.
Not pushed.
Not forced.
Just...there.
He swallows.
His eyes flick briefly to the knife.
Then back to me.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
The answer comes too quickly.
Too practiced.
Too certain.
The knife goes in before he can build on it. Straight into his thigh.
The sound that comes out of him tears through the space, raw and immediate, his body jerking hard against the restraints.
I leave the blade there.
Feel it. The resistance. The tension. Then pull it back out slowly.
“Where is she.”
His breathing is already breaking apart.
“I told you,” he spits, “I don’t—”
I take his hand before he can finish and pin it down.
“I’ll take parts off you,” I say quietly, watching him now, not the wound, not the blood, but him. “Until you tell me.”
I don’t need to raise my voice.
I don’t need to rush.
Because now, he understands.
I don’t wait for him to answer.
The first finger comes away under the blade, the movement clean, controlled, deliberate in a way that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with outcome.
His scream hits harder this time, his body bucking violently against the chair, the sound dragging out of him in a way that doesn’t stop when it should.
I don’t move back.
I don’t react to it.
I just watch.
Because this is where he breaks.
Or doesn’t.
Blood spreads across his hand, across the floor.
I let it sit.
Let the silence stretch just long enough that he has to feel it.
“Where is she.”
“I don’t know!” he shouts, panic tearing through the words now. “I don’t know who took your fucking whore, I’m a low-level guy, they don’t tell me shit!”
This time, I believe him.
Not because of what he says.
Because of how he says it.
Because there’s nothing left behind it.
No control. No calculation. Just fear.
He has nothing.
There’s nothing here. Nothing useful. Nothing that gets me closer to her.
For a second, I just stand there, looking at him.
At the blood.
At the damage already done.
And something shifts.
The quiet, unavoidable recognition that none of this matters if it doesn’t lead to her, that all of this, every movement, every decision, only has value if it gets me closer, and right now it hasn’t.
The knife falls from my hand. The sound barely carries. My fingers close around the gun.
The grip is different.
Heavier.
The man sees it. Something in him shifts.
His shoulders tighten against the restraints, his breathing changing, faster now, less controlled, his eyes flicking between my face and the weapon like he’s trying to find something in me that isn’t there.
“Wait—”
The word lands in the space between us, thin, unstable. I don’t move yet.
My thumb rests along the side of the grip, my finger not quite on the trigger, not quite away from it either.
I can feel the difference.
With the knife, there’s resistance. There’s force. You push, you feel it give, you feel the body react to you.
This...this doesn’t ask for anything.
Just a decision. The distance between us is nothing. A step. I don’t need to get closer. I don’t need to touch him again. I don’t need to hear him.
His mouth is still moving.
Words spilling over each other now, faster, losing shape.
“—I don’t know anything, I told you, I don’t—”
The video flickers behind my eyes again.
Her hair.
That hand.
The way it moved like it belonged there.
My finger settles.
The hesitation, if it was that, doesn’t stretch.
It doesn’t build.
I pull the trigger.
The sound splits the space cleanly, louder than anything else has been, sharp enough to echo off the walls and come back again before it dies.
The recoil is quick.
Controlled.
Gone almost as soon as it registers.
He goes still.
The noise leaves the room.
Everything drops with it.
I stand there for a second, the gun still in my hand, the weight of it unchanged, the shape of it the same as it was before I used it.
I lower the gun.
Turn.
“We need someone higher up.”
My voice comes out even. Flat. Like nothing in the room has shifted.
Like I didn’t just cross something. Like I didn’t just take someone's life. Because whatever that was, it didn’t matter enough to stop me.