Chapter 14
Fourteen
Dagger
I haven’t slept more than a couple hours in days. Not since Blair showed up at the clubhouse with that fucking Polaroid—eyes blazing, voice shaking, like the truth was the only thing she had left to hold onto. She looked at me like I was the villain in her worst goddamn nightmare.
And then—fuck.
She finally gave in.
Climbed into my lap like she was starving for it.
Like I was her fix and she’d been cold-turkey too long.
Used me like she needed to feel something other than the burn of betrayal in her chest. And I let her.
Took every ounce of that pain she shoved between us and gave it right back, rough and raw and real.
Then—just when shit finally felt like it was going my way, like the chaos was settling and she was choosing me—fucking Noir had to show up and fuck it all up.
Of course he did.
Couldn’t let me have one fucking second. One goddamn win without slithering in to ruin it.
He looked like shit. Hollowed out and strung tight, like whatever was holding him together was one breath away from snapping. Sat across from me, eyes dead, shoulders locked, like he knew how close he was to catching a bullet between the eyes.
Then he laid it all out.
The bodies. The pills. The fucked-up little war he kicked off ‘cause he thought I had Brynn taken out.
I should’ve fucking killed him. Right then.
Should’ve buried my fist in his face and made him bleed for every fucking risk he took with Blair’s life.
But I didn’t.
Because as much as I wanted to end him, I knew—deep down—I couldn’t. Not without losing her. Not without crossing a line she’d never come back from. Because no matter how bad he fucked up, no matter how much she hates him right now... she still cares.
And if I took him out, even for her, I’d be the one she’d never forgive.
So I didn’t kill him.
Not for him.
For her.
Even though he doesn’t fucking deserve it. Even though, without knowing it, he put her fucking life on the line.
Blair and I have been holed up in her motel ever since. Noir’s been crashing in his car outside or disappearing into the city to track whatever crumbs he can find. Doesn’t matter. Every second we don’t get Dante his product is another second the noose tightens around my fucking neck.
The first duffle of Cyanide pills Noir tried to recover was a goddamn wash—half of them destroyed from sitting too long underwater.
Useless. The second batch? He burned it.
Fucking burned it. Said it was drunk. That it was after Blair pushed him away on the fire escape.
All we’ve got now is the third bag, and it’s not enough. Not by a fucking long shot.
But he’s trying. I’ll give him that.
When I told him Dante’s the one behind Brynn’s overdose—when I laid it out clean and said he was the reason Blair’s being hunted now—something in him cracked. He gave me everything he had. Every dollar. Every contact. Every fucking ounce of guilt he’s been carrying around.
Still isn’t enough.
I stalk the alley behind the garage, boots grinding gravel as I head toward my bike. The sky’s that dead grey-blue that means morning’s close, but not close enough to matter. The air tastes like metal and regret, and the burn behind my eyes has nothing to do with sleep.
I light a smoke anyway. Don’t even want it. Just need something to do with my hands so I don’t wrap them around someone’s throat.
I try Ruck first—the guy I stationed outside Blair’s door. One fucking job. Watch her. Keep her safe.
Phone rings twice.
Voicemail.
I grit my teeth. Hit redial. Nothing.
Pull up Blair’s number.
Me
You up?
I watch the screen like it owes me something. It stalls. Sending…
Doesn’t deliver.
My gut sinks. Heavy. Cold.
Her phone’s never off.
Not unless something’s seriously wrong.
I call. Straight to voicemail.
I hiss through my teeth, throw my leg over the bike, keys already in hand. Dial Ruck again.
Voicemail.
“Fuck,” I snarl, gripping the throttle like I could snap it. My boot slams the kickstand up. “No. Nope. Not fucking happening.”
I need backup. But not my guys. Not yet. So I call the one fucking person I hate enough to trust.
It rings once.
Noir picks up. “What happened?”
“Something’s wrong. Get to the motel. Now.”
“Fuck.” A pause. Then, “Alright, I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there.” No more words. No point.
I yank the helmet on, strap it fast. Gloves next—slammed on, no finesse, just speed.
Every second wasted is one she might not have.
I fire the engine. It roars to life, loud and pissed.
Then I’m gone. Tire screaming, wind ripping at my jacket, the night blurring around me as I tear toward the motel—praying I’m not too fucking late.
Headlights blur past in streaks. Wind hits like knives. But none of it matters.
All I hear is her laugh—sharp, reckless, wrapped in smoke and sugar. The way she looked that night. High as fuck, dancing like the world couldn’t touch her.
Fuck —how it felt to finally have her.
That moment when all the sharp edges dropped, when the attitude slipped, and she let herself fall apart in my hands. A girl like her doesn’t hand that over easily. Doesn’t let anyone see the cracks.
But she let me, and now she’s not answering. Ruck’s not answering.
I already fucking know.
I take a corner too fast—rear tire kicks out, gravel spits, the whole bike bucking beneath me.
I nearly eat asphalt.
I don’t slow down.
Because there’s only one reason it’s this quiet.
I’m already too fucking late.
I pull into the lot, gravel crunching under my tires as I slow to a crawl. And immediately, I know something’s wrong.
Too quiet.
No Ruck leaning against the railing with that bored-ass look like he’s been doing me a favor just by breathing. No hookers on the walkway or posted up on the picnic table trying to bum smokes or flash a little leg for attention.
It’s dead.
Too fucking dead.
I kill the engine, slam the kickstand down, and swing off the bike. The second my boots hit gravel, I’m yanking off my helmet, tossing it onto the seat like it’s too fucking heavy to hold. My gloves hit the pavement next—one, two—before I’m rolling my shoulders, shaking out the tension.
Then my hand drops to the blade under my jacket. No hesitation. No second thought. Fingers curl tight around the grip like muscle memory, like I’ve been waiting for this moment all goddamn night.
I don’t call out. Don’t make a sound. Just move—low, fast, quiet. A shadow cutting through the dark. Every hair on the back of my neck stands up, instincts screaming.
I head for Blair’s room.
The same one I left her in this morning, curled under the sheets, still faking sleep like she thought I wouldn’t know. Wearing my shirt, and nothing else. Legs tangled in the covers, lip curled like she was daring me to pull her back in before I left.
When I reach her room, I see it right away—the door. Cracked open. Just a sliver.
Fuck.
My stomach drops. Every instinct howling. I told her not to leave. Not to even crack the goddamn door. But like the defiant, mouthy brat she is, of course she didn’t fucking listen.
I move in closer. Slow. Controlled. Blade firmly in my hand
The closer I get, the worse the air feels—off somehow. Like it’s been disturbed. Like something wrong already happened and the walls are still holding onto the memory.
I push the door open with the back of my knuckles, and the smell hits me like a fist to the teeth—copper and sweat and something burned.
Blood.
Lots of it.
Then I see the bed, and I freeze.
Ruck. Lying flat on his back, arms spread, chest split wide like a goddamn crime scene anatomy lesson. Blood everywhere. Soaked into the mattress. Pooled along the floor. His eyes are blown wide, glassy, staring at nothing. His lips parted like he died trying to say something.
And Blair—she’s nowhere.
I step in. Slow. Measured. Every muscle locked. My boots stick to the floor, just slightly, just enough to tell me it’s worse than it looks. Which is saying a lot.
There’s a burner phone lying on Ruck’s chest. Dead center. Like it was fucking placed there. Not dropped. Not fumbled in some last-ditch move to call for help. No, left. Like a signature.
A fucking calling card.
My vision’s tunneling, rage threading through every breath, every beat of my pulse.
“Motherfucker,” I growl, low and lethal.
Behind me, the door creaks again.
“Fuck,” comes Noir’s voice.
I spin, already half expecting a fight.
He steps in like he’s been running through hell—hood hanging off his shoulder, his shirt damp, eyes burning. Not scared. Noir doesn’t do scared. But he’s rattled. He’s pissed. The kind of pissed that makes you do something reckless. Something irreversible.
He sees the bed.
The blood.
The empty space where Blair’s supposed to be.
And I watch it happen, watch him fucking snap.
“No—no, no, no. Where the fuck is she?”
I whip a glare at him. “You think I fucking know?”
Noir punches the wall hard enough to dent the drywall, his breath coming ragged. “Fuck. We were so close. Time’s not up yet. You said Dante gave you what—forty-eight hours? We still had time!”
“Yeah, well, stupid us for expecting a cartel boss to keep his fucking word.” My voice grits out like gravel. “I should’ve seen this shit coming. I knew leaving her was risky.”
The air between us crackles—rage and panic bleeding into every word, every breath.
I glance down at the burner phone still sitting in my palm like a fucking curse.
I flip the phone open. Only one number saved. Just one.
Figures.
My thumb hits call and I press it to speaker.
It rings once.
Then—
“Thought you’d call.”
That voice. Calm. Casual. Fucking smug.
My chest tightens. “Dante.”
He chuckles, smooth as always. “Tick-tock, Dagger. Looks like your clock ran out.”
“No,” I snap. “You said forty-eight hours. I still had time.”
“I did,” he admits, tone maddeningly relaxed. “But in my experience, people work a little faster when the threat’s not hypothetical. When the clock’s not ticking in the background but screaming in their fucking ear.”
“You took her to light a fire under our asses?” I grind out.
“I borrowed her,” Dante says, amused. “Motivation. Consider it strategic pressure. She's a means to an end, Dagger. You want her breathing? You get me my money, or my fucking pills. Faster.”
I take a step forward like it’ll somehow close the distance. “You touch her?—”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Dante says. “She’s fine. Mouthy as hell this one, just like her sister. Bites like her too.”
Noir growls low in his throat, eyes full of blood and murder.
Dante’s voice drops, syrupy and final. “She’s got maybe a few hours before I decide she’s not worth the hassle. So I’d get moving, boys. Let’s see what you’re really made of.”
Click.
Silence.
Just our breathing. Noir’s fists trembling at his sides. My heart beating like a war drum in my throat.
And the knowledge that if we don’t find her fast, we’ll be dragging her body out of whatever hellhole he’s locked her in.
Time’s almost up.
For a second, the room holds its breath. Then Noir’s moving—grabbing the edge of the table and flipping it, screaming something guttural as it crashes into the wall. I let him. He needs to get it out. We both do.
But not for long.
Because they took our fucking girl.
Dante just lit a fuse he won’t be able to snuff out because we’re coming for her like a bad fucking high with no comedown. Nothing’s gonna stop the rush. Not bullets, not bodies, not even the burn it takes to bring her home.