23. Jon
TWENTY-THREE
Jon
Cold water shocks me awake.
I gasp, choking as it streams down my face and soaks the collar of my shirt. My head pounds with the aftermath of the sedative, mouth cotton dry, muscles aching from being held in one position too long.
“Good morning, Mr. Knutt.” Wolfe’s voice carries the faintest trace of an accent—one that wasn’t in any of our intelligence files. “I apologize for the accommodations.”
I blink water from my eyes, taking stock through the disorientation. Metal chair, wrists and ankles secured with proper restraints, not zip ties. Concrete room, perhaps fifteen by fifteen feet. Single door, heavy steel. No windows. One camera in each corner. Temperature cool but not uncomfortable.
And Damien Wolfe, seated across from me in a chair that doesn’t belong in this prison cell—antique leather, expensively worn.
The kind of chair you’d find in a private study.
His suit is different from earlier. Still perfectly tailored, but now a deep navy rather than charcoal.
I’ve been unconscious long enough for him to change clothes.
“Where is she?” My voice comes out ragged, throat raw from the gas.
What time is it?
“Ah.” He smiles slightly. “No questions about your location? No demands to be released? No threats about what Guardian HRS will do when they find you? Just concern for Ms. Holbrook. How touching.”
I remain silent, conserving my energy and gathering intel.
Every second he talks, I gain valuable information.
The room is soundproofed—the heavy door and concrete construction confirm this.
No ambient noise filters through, which means we could be anywhere—a warehouse, a bunker, or an office building with a renovated interior.
“She’s quite comfortable, I assure you. Unlike her father.” Wolfe leans forward, elbows on his knees like we’re having a casual chat instead of sitting across from a predator. “You’ve chosen an interesting woman to protect. Aria Holbrook isn’t what she seems. Neither is Marcus.”
Blood roars in my ears.
My fists clench slow and tight, my fingers curling as much as they can with the restraints. “If you’ve hurt her?—”
“I would never harm her.” He raises a hand, placating. Mocking.
“Liar.”
“It’s the truth.” He leans back, crossing one leg over the other with that same calculated ease. His gaze sharpens, cutting into me like a scalpel, quiet and precise. “Though I wonder if the same can be said for her father.”
My pulse spikes. My muscles coil, ready to snap. But I don’t move. Not yet. He wants a reaction. Wants me off balance. Wants to remind me she’s in his hands.
He doesn’t get what he wants.
Instead, I lock eyes with him and let him see it—that if he’s touched her, even once, even wrong, I’ll rip this room apart brick by brick.
“Never harmed her? You kidnapped her… Twice. Drugged her. Locked her in a cage. Planned to sell her like property?—”
“I was never going to sell her. That was for Marcus’s benefit.”
“Does it matter? You used her as leverage, and she suffered as a result.” The metal of the restraints bite into my wrists. I don’t raise my voice. Don’t flinch. But every word lands like a warning shot.
“You think because you didn’t lay a hand on her, that makes you innocent?” I meet his gaze, steady and cold. “You broke into her life. Ripped away her safety. Turned her into a bargaining chip in a game she never agreed to play.”
His expression doesn’t change—but I see it. That flicker of regret behind the eyes.
“You don’t get to say you haven’t hurt her. Or whatever the hell you’re telling yourself to sleep at night.”
Silence stretches, taut and thin.
I lean forward as much as the restraints allow, voice low and sharp.
“What you did leaves bruises no one can see. That’s still harm. That’s still violence.”
The sheer audacity of it makes my jaw clench. Heat sparks low in my chest—not panic, not fear. Rage. Controlled. Contained. But rising.
I shift in the chair, just enough for Wolfe to notice. Not aggression. Not yet. Just a quiet signal: you’re not safe here either.
“You keep using her as leverage,” I say, voice flat. “Don’t pretend that’s not harm.”
“You assume I want to hurt her. I don’t.” Wolfe’s mouth curves, but there’s no pleasure in it. “I want to free her. From him. From the lie she’s living.”
Something in his tone raises the hair on my arms. Not the threat I expected. There’s bitterness there, yes, but also what sounds like genuine concern.
“What do you want?” I test the restraints subtly. Professional grade, properly applied. No give in the metal, no weakness in the chair legs. Those who secured me knew what they were doing.
“I want the truth.” Wolfe stands, straightening his suit jacket. “And for Aria to hear it.”
“Truth? What the fuck does that mean?”
He moves to a small table, tucked in the corner of the room. Pours water from a crystal decanter into a glass. Returns and holds it to my lips. I hesitate, then drink. No point refusing hydration. If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead already.
The water is cold and clean, washing away some of the chemical aftertaste from the sedative.
“You believe you understand what’s happening here.” He sets the glass aside. “A criminal taking revenge on his half-brother. A kidnapping motivated by greed or power or simple malice.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Marcus stole something precious from me many years ago.” Wolfe’s smile is all teeth, his eyes cold and unreadable.
“Before Aria was born. I’m simply reclaiming what’s mine.
” There’s a curve to his mouth, but his eyes stay flat—empty of anything human.
The smile is hollow, as if his face remembers the motion even when he doesn’t feel it.
“Aria isn’t property.”
“No.”
Something flashes across his face—genuine emotion breaking through the controlled exterior. Pain, perhaps. Or grief. “She’s not, but she is family. More than Marcus deserves.”
He turns away, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt like the conversation hasn’t cracked open something raw beneath his practiced calm. Then—like flipping a switch—the warmth drains from his voice.
Wolfe paces toward the door, hand resting briefly on the frame. He doesn’t turn back.
“You know, you don’t have to stay involved.” He glances over his shoulder, gaze flicking over me. Calculating. Cold. “You could walk away. No chains. No threat. Just—freedom.”
He lets the word hang in the air like bait.
“Leave this to Marcus and me. Let Aria decide what matters most without your influence.”
I lift my head. Say nothing. Just watch him.
A slow breath cools the fire building in my chest. He wants to frame this as mercy. A noble out. Pretend he’s offering peace.
But it’s nothing more than manipulation. Smoke dressed as virtue.
“You’re wasting your breath.” My voice stays level. “I’m not leaving her.”
Wolfe smiles, but it’s hollow—like his face remembers the shape of the expression, even if he’s forgotten how it’s meant to feel.
“Didn’t think so. But I had to offer. Optics. You’ll be fed. Given water. Monitored. But for now…” His gaze drops to the restraints, his mouth twitching. “You stay here.”
I tense—not from fear, but from instinct. The itch to move, to fight, coiling under my skin.
“If you hurt her?—”
“I won’t.” The words cut sharply. Offended. Defensive. “But Marcus will. And she deserves to know what kind of man raised her.”
He steps to the door, fingers brushing the panel beside it. A low mechanical click signals the lock disengaging. He pauses there, half-shadowed by the hall light, then looks back.
“She’s lucky, you know.” His voice is quieter now, almost reflective.
“To have someone like you. A man who’ll walk through hell to save her.
” His head tilts slightly, admiration laced with something darker.
“But that kind of interference?” He shakes his head once, slow.
“That, I can’t allow. Things need to happen. She needs to see the truth.”
His smile returns—thin and final.
“Get comfortable, Jon. This part of the story? It’s not about you.”
The door closes. The click of reinforced steel echoes like a sentence.
And I’m left alone. Restrained. Pulse steady. Jaw clenched.
Not because I’m afraid.
But because I believe Wolfe means every word he says, and that makes him far more dangerous than I ever imagined.
I immediately test the restraints, searching for weaknesses. The chair is bolted to the floor. The restraints show no sign of poor maintenance or improper application. Over the next few hours, I catalog details—the time between guard checks, the type of locks on the door, the camera angles.
But beneath the professional assessment runs a current of dread.
Not for myself.
But for Aria.
She is family. More than Marcus deserves.
Something is very wrong here. Wolfe’s words weren’t just the ranting of a criminal seeking revenge. They held conviction—and worse, they held pain.
I remember Marcus in the car—his instinct to save himself first, the way he blamed Aria for the kidnapping, the possessive rather than protective nature of his concern. Not the behavior of a loving father. Something cold settles in my stomach at the implications.
Whatever truth Wolfe is planning to reveal, I suspect it will shatter Aria more thoroughly than any physical threat could.
And I need to reach her before that happens.