Prologue How To Ruin A Perfectly Good Kidnapping #2
Caden, the youngest of my ex-pack, has at least the decency to look vaguely guilty.
His sandy hair falls into eyes that won't meet mine, and his scent—something like honeyed tea, now soured with stress and something that might be regret—tells me everything about how he feels being here.
His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he's trying to make himself smaller.
Not guilty enough to stop it, though. Never that. Certainly not brave enough to stand up, to say no, to be anything other than Damien's shadow. Some things never change.
Two security goons flank them like poorly paid backup dancers, their scents generic Alpha aggression—all musk and testosterone and "I peaked playing high school football and never emotionally recovered.
" One of them has a gun holstered at his hip that he keeps touching like he's not sure it's still there.
Amateur. The other looks like he bench-presses cars for fun and hasn't read a book since the ones with pictures.
His neck is so thick it's basically merged with his shoulders.
These are the intimidating henchmen they could afford? Truly, I'm insulted on behalf of kidnappers everywhere.
I let out a growl that rumbles from somewhere deep in my chest—an omega's growl, which doesn't carry the same weight as an Alpha's but gets my point across just fine.
It's more of a warning than a threat, a sound that says, "I may be small, but I will absolutely bite, and I had my tetanus shot last year. "
"Oh, my fucking god," I snap, straining against my bonds hard enough that the chair creaks ominously beneath me. "If you don't fucking feed me, I'm going to tap into the lovely training we rich kids all get on how to escape being kidnapped and kick y'all's asses myself!"
It's not an empty threat.
The Carlisle family fortune—built on generations of old money and careful investments—came with certain.
.. extracurricular educational opportunities.
Self-defense classes start at age eight.
Escape techniques from a former CIA operative whom my grandmother kept on retainer.
How to identify a tracking device in your Birkin.
How to dislocate your thumb to slip out of poorly tied restraints.
Standard heiress curriculum for families who understand that wealth makes you a target.
These zip ties, though? Not poorly tied. Which is mildly concerning but also means someone here has done this before. Delightful.
"Hell," I add, the hysteria creeping into my voice now, mixing with genuine frustration and the kind of anger that comes from being interrupted mid-anticipation of the best Valentine's Day of your life, "just kill me at this rate. Better than being fucking hungry!"
Damien pinches the bridge of his nose, the gesture so familiar it makes something in my chest twist with an emotion that's definitely not longing.
More like the urge to commit violence. He used to do that same thing whenever I didn't fall in line, didn't perform the role of perfect omega he'd scripted for me.
"I forgot," he mutters, his voice like gravel wrapped in silk—the same voice that used to whisper promises he never intended to keep, that used to tell me I was overreacting, that I was too sensitive, that I was lucky to have him, "what a fucking pain in our asses you are when you won't shut the fuck up. "
There's the Damien I know.
Charming as a viper and twice as venomous.
The mask slips to reveal the monster I always knew lurked beneath.
My scent shifts without my permission—the usual warm notes of cinnamon sugar and roasted coffee beans taking on something sharper, more defensive.
Dark vanilla and soft amber churning into something bitter, something that probably reads as pure defiance to every Alpha nose in the room.
My omega is bristling, not cowering. Rising up instead of backing down.
Might as well drown them in the scent of an omega who refuses to be broken.
"Should we knock her out?" the security goon with the gun asks, his hand moving toward me like he's volunteering for the job.
His scent spikes with anticipation—the smell of a man who enjoys causing pain.
I laugh.
It comes out sharp and brittle, bouncing off the warehouse walls like shattered glass on concrete.
"Go ahead," I say, meeting his dull eyes with all the fire my hazel gaze can muster. The gold flecks in my irises probably catch the sickly fluorescent light like tiny sparks of war. "I fucking dare you to leave a single bruise on me."
I lean forward as much as my restraints allow, letting my voice drop to something silky and dangerous—the same tone I use when crafting cocktails for difficult customers who don't tip.
"And I'm confident the men that are surely going to try and murder you all and your next generation—but also the very men you work for—will ruin you."
I let that sink in, watching the realization dawn across his face like a particularly stupid sunrise.
Because whoever hired these goons clearly didn't explain who they were actually stealing from.
Didn't mention that Tank has military contacts who could make people disappear.
That Julian's money could destroy livelihoods with a phone call.
That Elias knows every firefighter, paramedic, and cop in a fifty-mile radius.
"So go make me a fucking sandwich."
The goon's face contorts into something ugly.
His scent spikes with anger—burnt rubber and aggression, the olfactory equivalent of a red flag factory explosion. He stomps toward me, each heavy footfall echoing in the cavernous space like a countdown to violence, and I brace myself when he raises his hand.
This is going to hurt.
Worth it, though. Every second of watching these assholes squirm is absolutely worth it.
The gunshot cracks through the air before the slap can land.
My ears ring from the sudden explosion of sound, every muscle in my body seizing as primal fear floods my system.
The acrid smell of gunpowder joins the warehouse's existing bouquet of unpleasantness.
The security goon crumples to the concrete floor like someone cut his strings, a dark bloom spreading beneath him that I definitely don't look at because nope, not processing that right now, filing that under "things to unpack with a therapist someday. "
Everyone else freezes.
Everyone except Damien, whose arm is still extended, gun in hand, smoke curling from the barrel like a gothic accessory.
His face is carved from ice, expression utterly devoid of the charm he usually wields like a weapon.
This is the Damien I knew existed beneath the smooth politician's smile—the one who once made me feel like I was the crazy one for noticing the darkness lurking behind his eyes.
The one who whispered threats disguised as endearments.
I smirk. Can't help it.
The expression pulls at my lips before I can stop it, and then I'm snickering—a sound that borders on unhinged, but honestly? If there was ever a time for unhinged, it's when you're tied to a chair watching your ex shoot his own employee.
The snickering escalates into full laughter, the kind that hurts your ribs and probably makes everyone question your sanity.
Join the club. I question it daily. Twice on Tuesdays.
"Well, wow," I manage between gasps of manic laughter.
"Entertaining as fuck to know you'd still kill for me.
" I tip my head, studying him with the kind of assessment usually reserved for particularly disappointing modern art or wine that's turned to vinegar.
"But you're still my ass of an ex trying to ruin my peaceful life, so you can fuck off too. "
Something flashes in Damien's dark eyes—anger, possession, that sick need for control that always lurked beneath his polished surface.
The kind of obsession that doesn't know how to let go, that views people as property rather than partners.
He holsters the gun with methodical precision, stepping over the growing pool of blood like it's an inconvenient puddle rather than a person who was breathing thirty seconds ago.
The blood.
Don't look at the blood, or inhale the smell of that copper tang mixing with the mildew and motor oil.
No need to think about how easily life can be snuffed out …how close that could have been you.
His shoes—Italian leather, probably cost more than most people's rent, the exact shade of brown he always insisted was "cognac, not brown, Rosemarie, there's a difference"—track through the crimson spreading across the concrete as he advances on me.
Each step deliberate, predatory, designed to intimidate.
It doesn't work. I've seen scarier things. I've survived scarier things.
I've made coffee for scarier things at 6 AM before said scary things have had their first caffeine fix.
Tank before coffee is genuinely terrifying.
Then his hand is around my throat.
The pressure isn't immediate—it builds, slow and deliberate, his fingers pressing into the soft tissue just enough to make breathing a conscious effort. His scent overwhelms me now, cedar and bergamot gone sharp with dominance, trying to force submission through proximity alone.
It's thick and cloying, nothing like the scents I've grown to crave, to find safety in.
Nothing like smoked leather and amber.
Or like bergamot and sage.
I can’t dare forget my patchouli and vanilla.
Cute.
He thinks he can break me with a chokehold.
Like he didn't try for three years and fail. He’s clearly forgotten how I have built myself back up from the ashes he left behind.
I simply grin.
It's the smile that makes murderers look sane by comparison, all teeth and zero warmth. The expression of a smile that says, "I've already won, you just don't know it yet." This look has gotten me through society galas and family dinners.
Three years of pretending everything was fine…
I know it infuriates him.