27. Less
Less
Something's wrong.
I can feel it.
Maybe that sounds crazy.
Maybe Amanda would call it my overprotective caveman instincts.
But after everything we've been through?
I've learned not to ignore that feeling.
The last three weeks have been good.
No. Better than good.
They’ve been perfect.
Every day Amanda trusts me a little more.
Every day she smiles a little easier.
Every day she lets me love her a little deeper.
And Christ, I love this woman.
Not just because she's beautiful.
And yeah, she is—so fucking beautiful with her mane of fiery waves, her pale green eyes, and her peaches and cream complexion. Those bountiful curves that drive me wild. And her huge, wondrous heart.
Yeah, my girl’s a fucking knockout.
And it’s not just because she's talented.
Though she absolutely is.
It's the million little things.
The way she somehow burns water trying to make Jell-O but can make coq au vin like Julia Child herself.
The way she sings while folding laundry.
The way she steals my hoodies.
The way she kisses me goodbye even if she's only leaving the room for thirty seconds.
The way she laughs.
The way she cries at stupid commercials.
The way she makes me smile without even trying.
The way she looks at me like maybe I'm worth loving.
Amanda Perkins is perfection in my eyes.
And every day that passes, I become more certain.
She's it for me.
Forever.
Which is exactly why this quiet from our mystery stalker is driving me out of my fucking mind.
He’s been too quiet.
Three weeks and nothing.
No threats.
No accidents.
No strange messages.
Nothing.
And I hate it.
Because monsters don't just disappear.
They wait.
As we arrive at the theater for the final dress rehearsal before tomorrow night's opening, that feeling returns.
Heavy.
Wrong.
Like a storm gathering in the distance.
“You okay?” Amanda asks.
I turn.
And immediately forget how to breathe.
She's standing there in her robe.
Hair and makeup done.
Those green eyes watching me with concern.
She needs to go get dressed—to prepare for this role. I know that. I also know this is what she’s worked for her whole life.
But all I can do right now is stare.
Because honestly?
I just can't help it.
She's gorgeous.
Always—but right now? Even more than usual.
“Fuck, Sweetheart, look at you.”
“What? You’ve seen me in makeup before,” she says, scoffing and trying to dismiss this—but I won’t let her.
“If you didn’t have to go on stage in two minutes I’d back you into that dressing room and strip you naked, make you scream before I let you come,” I growl and dip my head, dropping a quick, close-mouthed kiss on her neck.
“Less,” she moans and I love it.
Love the way my name sounds spilling from her lips.
“You're gonna knock 'em dead, Rusty.”
She smiles.
“Thank you, Alessio.”
Then she reaches up and kisses me quickly.
Too quickly.
Trying not to smear her lipstick.
“It's gonna be crazy until intermission,” she says apologetically.
“I know.”
“Promise you won’t pout?” Amanda teases me.
“I won’t pout.”
“Liar.”
She laughs softly and squeezes my hand.
“I’ll see you later.”
“You will,” I promise.
Plenty of time for kisses later.
Plenty of time for everything later.
I watch her disappear into her dressing room.
And then I take up my usual post outside.
That's our deal.
I don't crowd her while she's working.
I understand her process.
Respect it.
Love it.
So I wait.
Two minutes.
Then three.
No problem.
Five minutes—something cold slides down my spine.
It’s been too long.
I hear someone calling her name from the stage.
I check the time.
No Amanda.
“Miss Perkins!”
One of the stagehands comes hurrying into the hallway carrying a headset and clipboard.
“We need Miss Perkins on set.”
I glance at my watch automatically.
Five minutes.
Five fucking minutes.
It’s been too long.
Something ugly twists in my gut.
“I'll get her,” I tell him.
The kid nods and disappears.
I walk toward Amanda's dressing room.
Not rushing.
Not yet.
Just moving with purpose.
Because maybe she's changing.
Maybe Brielle stopped by when I was checking the exits.
Maybe she's fixing her makeup.
Maybe—I knock.
“Rusty?”
Nothing.
Not unusual.
Sometimes she loses herself in character.
I smile despite myself.
My girl gets tunnel vision.
I knock again.
Louder.
“Sweetheart?”
Nothing.
And suddenly every instinct I've developed over twenty years of military service and private security starts screaming.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
The hallway feels wrong.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
The laughter and bustle from backstage suddenly seem far away.
Disconnected.
Cold dread trickles down my spine.
“Rusty?”
I try the handle.
Locked.
My blood turns to ice.
Amanda never locks the door when I’m outside it.
Never.
Not once in three weeks.
“Amanda!”
Nothing.
Not even movement.
And now I'm breathing harder.
Thinking faster.
Too fast.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
No.
No.
No, sweetheart, answer me.
I hit the door with my shoulder.
The frame groans.
Doesn't give.
I hit it again.
Harder.
Wood splinters.
The lock explodes.
And I stumble inside—and the whole fucking world stops.
Empty.
The room is empty.
Her robe lies crumpled on the floor.
One of her makeup brushes rolls lazily beneath the vanity.
Still moving.
Recently disturbed.
Her tea sits untouched.
Half full.
Still steaming.
And her phone—her fucking phone—sits abandoned on the counter.
I stop breathing.
No.
No.
No, no, no—fuck no!
“AMANDA!”
The roar tears out of me.
Animal.
Primal.
Like something wounded.
Like something dying.
Because I know.
God help me, I know.
Someone took her.
“SECURITY brEACH!” I bellow.
I start tearing the room apart.
Looking.
Searching.
For signs.
A struggle.
Blood.
A note.
Something.
Anything.
I throw open closets.
Rip apart garment bags.
Shove the changing screen aside.
Nothing.
Nothing!
“Less!”
Footsteps thunder behind me.
Noel.
Kai.
Ego.
Jack.
But I barely hear them.
Because all I can see is Amanda smiling at me fifteen minutes ago.
Her lips brushing mine.
Later, she'd said.
Later.
Now she must be scared.
Alone.
Calling for me.
And I wasn't here.
Fucking fuck! I wasn't here.
“No,” I whisper.
Then louder.
“No!”
I shove aside the vanity.
Move costume racks.
Rip drawers out.
My knees hit the floor.
My chest hurts.
I can't breathe.
“Less!”
Noel grabs my shoulders.
Hard.
“Look at me!”
I can't.
I fucking can't.
“He took her.”
“I know.”
“He fucking took her!”
My voice cracks.
It breaks.
Because this woman owns my soul.
And somebody stole her right out from under me.
Ego's already moving.
“Kane, security footage.”
Kai's on his phone.
“Lock the building down. Nobody leaves.”
Jack appears with half the Sigma team already spreading out.
Chaos erupts.
Orders.
Running feet.
Radios.
But I only have one thought.
Find Amanda.
Find her.
Then kill whoever touched her.
Because they made one catastrophic mistake.
They didn't take some random actress.
They took my woman.
“What the hell is this?” Ego suddenly says.
I turn.
He's standing beside the huge antique mirror mounted on the far wall.
The thing has shifted.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Enough to reveal darkness behind it.
“Fuck,” Kai snaps. “That's not on the blueprints.”
I cross the room in three strides.
Grab the edge.
Push.
At first nothing happens.
Then—movement.
Heavy movement.
Wood scraping.
The mirror swings outward.
Not a mirror.
A door.
A hidden fucking door.
Beyond it—darkness.
Narrow stairs descending into blackness.
Old.
Forgotten.
And carrying the faint scent of Amanda's perfume.
My heart stops.
Then starts again.
Harder.
Faster.
“She's down there,” I whisper.
Noel grabs my arm.
“Less—”
I rip free.
“Hold on, Rusty.”
I yank the flashlight from my utility belt.
Draw my weapon.
And step into the darkness.
“I'm coming, sweetheart.”