Chapter Seventeen
Berkley
Before I left the house, I set up failsafes everywhere I could think of.
Silent pings. Buried signals. Backdoor traces only Ronan would spot on the first sweep, and Emerson right after him.
Rowan will lose his mind, but he’ll follow the trail anyway because he always does.
They will find me. They will tear the world apart to find me.
And still… leaving them behind felt like carving pieces out of myself.
I know how badly this is going to gut them.
The betrayal they’ll feel when they realize I’m gone, and worse when they understand I walked out on purpose.
I don’t know if they’ll ever forgive me.
But for Kimber? I’d do it again. A thousand times.
There isn’t a version of this where I let her end up like I did.
There isn’t a universe where I don’t choose her.
Once I answered Dean’s text and locked my fate in place with five words—What do I need to do?
—I switched the conversation to my phone.
I texted him again from my number, continuing the thread exactly where I left off.
He didn’t question it for a second. Of course he didn’t.
He cares about results, not methods. And I know exactly what result he wants.
He wants me delivered like a gift. A shiny, ribbon-wrapped offering on a silver platter.
But I’m not stupid. I know he never intends to give Kimber back. Dean has never released something he considers his. And now that he realizes I’m alive in full force—rebuilt, sharpened, dangerous—he’ll want both of us. Me and Kimber.
The difference now is that the timeline is on my terms.
I have to buy enough time for my guys to wake up, panic, tear the house apart, and eventually think their way through the data crumbs I left behind.
The only real unknown is how long they’ll sleep.
I’d hoped the aftermath of last night would knock them out for at least four hours.
Maybe five. Enough time to keep Dean from getting suspicious, but not enough for him to lock me away before they close in.
His demands came fast during our exchange. He wanted me to leave the guys behind. He wanted silence. He wanted me to come alone. Unarmed. Immediately.
I agreed with everything but the last two.
I might be stepping straight into hell—but I’m not doing it unprepared.
I kept him talking—stalling, probing, pretending to bargain—until he finally sent an address, likely convinced he’d backed me into a corner. By the time the location came through, most of my head start was gone. I pulled it up and nearly snorted out loud.
Of course it’s by the pier.
I swear these assholes have never had an original idea in their lives. We should have just swept the entire waterfront from the beginning. It would have saved days of guesswork and bloodshed.
But now I know exactly where I’m going.
Exactly what I’m stepping into.
Exactly what the cost may be.
And I walk toward it anyway.
Before I send my last text, I double-check everything on my body that matters.
My fingers slide down my thighs, brushing over the hidden seams I stitched into these pants months ago.
Two rip-away slits, one on each leg, each hiding a blade forged for one purpose.
My special knives. The ones meant for men like Dean.
The ones that have never, not once, missed their mark.
I make sure they are tight against my skin, secure, invisible.
Because the first thing these bastards are going to do is take my phone…
and then strip me of every weapon they think I have.
Let them try. Let them believe they’ve disarmed me.
They never look deep enough.
The road to the warehouse is silent except for the slap of my boots against broken asphalt and the distant hum of water hitting the pier walls. The gate ahead is ajar, rust eating through the metal like rot in bone. It looks abandoned. Forgotten. Perfect for a monster.
As I cross the threshold, I lift my phone and type.
I’m here.
The reply comes before I take another step.
Walk to the front entrance. Set your phone and weapons down.
A laugh bubbles up in my chest. If only he knew.
I walk toward the entrance exactly as instructed, slow, controlled, my pulse steady even though every survival instinct is screaming.
I set my phone on the ground, then shrug out of my jacket and let the visible weapons clatter beside it—an offering for anyone watching.
The hidden blades stay where they are, pressed close to my skin, untouched and waiting. My last, honest line of defense.
The doors swing open before I can straighten.
Three men spill out like vultures.
Two of them are forgettable the moment I look at them. Sloppy stances. Heavy breathing. Hands too tight around their guns. I could slit both their throats faster than I could say “fuck you” and still have time to wipe my blade clean.
But the third one…
He steps differently. Balanced. Attentive. His eyes track me like a puzzle he’s already halfway solved. There’s training there. Real training. Private security. Military, maybe.
I could take him too. It would just cost me time. And time isn’t something I have to spare. Not yet.
So, I lower my eyes, let them believe I’m beaten, and wait.
When their hands shove me forward, I don’t resist. When they yank my arms behind me and zip tie my wrists together, I let them. The bite of plastic digs into my skin, but I barely feel it.
Because that’s the moment he appears.
A slow set of footsteps crosses the concrete, steady and full of arrogance, like the world folds around him. Then Dean steps out of the shadows.
The last time I saw him, I was bleeding onto cold stone, seventeen and small and helpless.
This time, I lift my chin.
This time, he’s the one who should be afraid.
He steps out of the shadows like he owns the place, but the years have not been kind to him.
Time dug its claws deep and dragged him downhill, carving out hollows beneath his eyes, sinking his cheeks, turning him into a brittle caricature of the man who once terrorized me.
His skin is pale and waxy, stretched tight like old parchment.
Sweat shines along his hairline even though the air is cold.
He looks like someone who has been living with fear as a houseguest.
Good.
A laugh bursts from me before I can stop it—sharp, bright, echoing off rusted shipping containers and cracked concrete. His men tense, but Dean startles, just slightly. The satisfaction warms me all the way to my fingers.
I tilt my head, studying him slowly, letting every second dig under his skin. “Well… someone looks like shit.”
His lip twitches. A tiny betrayal, but I catch it.
He hates that.
He hates that I see him.
He smooths his expression into something he thinks passes for control. A smirk that doesn’t touch his dead eyes. “I wouldn’t be so cocky, Berkley. You’re not exactly in a position to critique appearances.”
I shrug as if we’re discussing weather, not my kidnapping. “Where’s Kimber? You still need to follow through with your end and let her go. You have me now. The swap you demanded.”
His laugh is a jagged sound, scraping the air raw. “Did you actually think I was going to let her go?” He steps closer, the smell of stale cologne and decay clinging to him. “No. You are a redo that should have died with your pathetic father.”
The words slide over me without catching. He’s reaching—digging for old wounds that no longer bleed for him. But a darker hunger coils through his expression as his gaze drags lazily down my body.
“They were fun times, weren’t they?” he murmurs, tongue briefly wetting his bottom lip.
Heat surges through me—cold, lethal heat. I lean forward, letting him see the devil he made. “There is no honor among monsters anymore, I guess. Give me proof of life. Now. Otherwise, I’ll kill everyone here before you blink.”
His men erupt into laughter, a chorus of stupidity echoing across the yard. Even Dean joins in, a low, smug chuckle.
I wait. Let them get it all out. Then I smile, slow and unhinged, letting them see exactly what they’ve invited in. “Not sure what you’re laughing at… I dismantled and burned your entire operation. And it was glorious.” I savor the last word until it twists into the air like smoke.
Dean’s composure fractures. He lunges before he even thinks, hand snapping across my face. My head whips to the side, copper flooding my mouth. One of his guards stiffens—fear or surprise, I don’t care.
I turn back to Dean with blood smeared across my lips and grin.
Then I spit at his feet. “I’m not that clueless teen anymore.”
For the first time, genuine uncertainty flickers through his eyes. It’s faint, but it’s there.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he pivots sharply, jaw clenched tight, and strides toward the warehouse door.
His men jerk on my arms, shoving me forward so roughly that my knees buckle.
I let them.
For now.
Let them think they have me.
Let Dean think he’s won round one.
He has no idea he just invited a wolf into his den.
Which was always the point. Dean thought he’d cornered me, that walking through his rusty gates meant defeat. But the second I agreed to his terms, the second I stepped onto this property, I had already won something far more valuable than leverage.
Access.
He was never going to let Kimber go. I knew that before the first smug text ever landed. But by insisting I come alone, he handed me exactly what I needed—one location, one building, one moment with everyone under the same roof.
A controlled burn is easier when the fire starts from the inside.
The men haul me through a long corridor, the overhead lights buzzing like dying insects.
Every step echoes off concrete and metal, a hollow drumbeat counting down the time I have left before the guys reach me, or death.
Dean thinks he holds all the pieces. He has no idea I’ve already scattered them like breadcrumbs behind me.