Chapter Thirty
Ayla
Before we left, Dean spent hours hacking into the club's membership database, doctoring records until our names—his and mine—showed up as established members.
He created fake profiles, payment histories, even forged a referral from a high roller who'd never set foot in the club.
Our new digital identities were flawless: headshots, birthdates, every credential, every trace of our real lives scrubbed from the system.
Dean even spoofed our phones so our GPS would show us at a hotel miles away.
When we walked up to the velvet ropes, the bouncer checked our IDs and the members list before waving us in like we belonged.
Inside, Dean's arm wraps around me, and the scent of wealth, whiskey, and men in sharp suits engulfs me. The lights are low and seductive, the club more exclusive lounge than nightclub—black leather booths, gleaming glass tables, waitresses in high-end lingerie strutting by with bottles and trays. This is a men’s playground, built on secrets and money.
At the far end, a woman dances on stage—long legs gliding around the pole, glossy hair catching the lights, her body swaying in time to the heavy bass.
Spotlights flicker over her, painting her golden and wild, and for a moment, every eye in the room is on her, the air thick with hunger and money.
Something about it hits me—hard. For a split second, I’m not here.
I’m back in the before: before Derek, before Charles, before everything went bad.
I’m nineteen again, spinning on a stage just like this, feeling powerful, free, untouchable.
The lights were mine, the crowd just a blur.
I remember laughing with the other girls backstage, sharing lipstick and secrets, daring each other to go a little further, to make a little more.
For one brief, perfect year, it wasn’t survival.
It was living. I owned myself. I was free.
The memory is bittersweet, sharp as glass. I drag my gaze away from the stage, the ache in my chest a reminder of everything I’ve lost, everything I still want to reclaim.
I scan the room once, twice, three times, but I don’t spot Nathan.
I know he’s here. Dean stays close, his palm steady on my hip as I wander deeper, the music vibrating through the floor, the candlelit shadows dancing across the walls.
Every step reminds me: tonight, we're not prey. We’re hunting, and the house doesn’t even realize it’s been hacked.
Dean murmurs in my ear, “Keep your head up. If you see anything suspicious—anyone watching us too closely—let me know. We have backup plans for backup plans.”
Dean and I make our way to the bar, blending in as we belong.
He orders us both drinks—top shelf, neat—but neither of us touches them.
I’m stone-cold sober tonight; I need every nerve razor-sharp.
I lean forward on the bar, arching my back just enough to give the bartender a generous view of my cleavage, my lips curling into a slow, practiced smile.
Dean squeezes my hip, his eyes scanning the mirrors behind the bottles, checking for Nathan’s reflection, never letting his guard down for even a second.
Every heartbeat feels like a countdown, the tension as sharp as the ice in our untouched glasses.
“Is there a VIP section, handsome?” I purr, voice dipped in honey and shameless flirtation, just like I used to when I was a dancer at Spotlight.
His eyes flick to my chest, lingering, almost dazed.
“Yeah, but you need special access,” he manages, his gaze glued to my neckline.
Dean’s arm slides around my waist, squeezing a little tighter—a silent warning, but he doesn’t stop me.
I keep the act up, letting my gaze lock onto the bartender’s, all heat and invitation.
“Oh yeah? What does a girl have to do to get back there?”
I lick my lips slowly, letting the implication hang in the air. He glances between Dean and me, clearly unsure whether to be jealous or impressed. “Oh, don’t mind him,” I say, winking, my grin pure mischief. “He’s harmless.” That’s a lie, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Uhm… I’m not sure…” he stammers, still caught off guard.
I make my move: with a bold flick, I tug my dress down low, flashing him a quick, unapologetic view of my breasts before pulling it back up.
His eyes widen, stunned for a heartbeat, then he grins—hooked.
“Right this way,” he says, already motioning us over.
I shoot Dean a triumphant wink; the vein in his temple twitches, jealousy thick in his eyes, but he knows the score.
We have a mission, and tonight, I am a fucking woman on fire.
He leads us through the velvet ropes into the VIP section at the back, and I walk in like I fucking own the place.
Dean’s arm is still at my waist, but I’m the one in control now—heels clicking, back straight, head high, every inch of me daring anyone to challenge me.
I am done being afraid, and I have a small army behind me now.
The air is thick with cigar smoke, money, and the perfume of too many secrets.
I scan the dim room—leather booths, gold-rimmed glasses, men in expensive suits watching the stage with bored, predatory eyes.
My gaze sweeps the crowd once, twice, and then—there.
Nathan. He’s holding court in a corner booth, flanked by cronies in expensive suits, a drink in one hand, his laughter booming above the music like a warning bell.
For a heartbeat, my whole body goes cold, nerves sparking out of control.
Horror flashes behind my eyes—Nathan’s hands pinning me down, the stink of his breath and his cigarettes burning into my skin, clause fucking four echoing in my skull.
For a split second, I can’t breathe. My knees threaten to buckle.
Every instinct is screaming: run, hide, disappear.
But I won’t let him have that power. I shove the panic down, lock it in a box, force myself to breathe.
I remind myself: I am not his. Not tonight, not ever again.
I keep moving, acting on pure impulse, refusing to freeze.
I let my chin lift, spine straightening, determination burning in my veins.
I am not the broken girl he remembers. I am here to hunt, not to be hunted.
Dean’s hand finds mine, grounding me with a squeeze.
He must feel the tremor in my grip, because he leans in, his voice barely more than a breath against my ear.
“He can’t hurt you now, Ayla. Not with me here.
” His words burrow deep, steadying me, anchoring me to the present.
I squeeze his hand back, drawing strength from the contact, and force myself to keep walking—one foot in front of the other, even as dread claws at my insides.
I won’t let Nathan see me flinch. Not now. Not ever again.
Without warning, I break from Dean’s side and make a beeline for Nathan’s table, feeling brave again. “Ayla!” Dean hisses, catching my arm. “Come on—”
But I yank free.
“What are you doing? We’re just supposed to get his attention from a distance,” Dean warns, his voice tense.
“Fuck that,” I whisper, flashing him a wicked grin. “I want to play. He won’t do a damn thing in front of his buddies, and you know it. He's a fucking coward.”
I square my shoulders, hips swaying, and saunter right up to the table, letting every man there get an eyeful.
“Hey, boys.” My voice is low, dripping with false sweetness.
Good to know I haven’t forgotten my skills.
All the men look up, and I catch a few of them staring at my scars, but when Nathan’s eyes meet mine, a small, venomous smile curls across my lips. “Miss me, honey?”
I slide into the booth beside him, Dean slipping in on my other side.
Nathan’s face is a mask of rage and confusion, trying to keep his good-guy act together in front of his friends and colleagues.
I lean in, giggling—too loud, too manic, but with every laugh, I can see the panic flicker deeper in his eyes.
“Aww, Nathan, cat got your tongue, babe?”
I trail a finger up his thigh, just one nail, slow and deliberate. “I know you do.” I wink, smirking, daring him to break character. Then I turn to Dean, my voice a purr. “Come on, baby, let’s go.”
We slide out of the booth, leaving Nathan gaping. “Where the fuck are you going?” he growls, barely keeping his voice civil for the table. He’s desperate to keep up appearances, but I can see the storm brewing beneath the surface.
I glance back over my shoulder, giving him my best come-and-get-me smile. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.”
We weave through the club toward the back, Dean close at my side, my pulse pounding with adrenaline, every step calculated. I look back one last time, and sure enough, Nathan is following—just as planned. Poor bastard has no idea this is the last night he’ll be breathing.
Dean
We weave through the crowd, my senses on overdrive, hyperaware of Nathan trailing not far behind us.
Every nerve in my body is buzzing, adrenaline humming beneath my skin.
Holy shit, I thought I was going to blow a fuse when Ayla flashed the bartender her tits, but damn—she just used her power to get exactly what she wanted.
And it was hot as hell. I watch her, the way she moves, the confidence in her stride—she heard the mission and became a force of nature, pure fucking fire.
If she’s scared, she doesn’t show it. Not even a bit.
We reach the back door, the air thick with nerves and the scent of alley garbage, every sense dialed up to eleven.
Alex and Zayn are already there, bathed in the harsh glow of a flickering security light, both of them tense, eyes scanning the alley and the shadowy corners around us.
Ayla and I flatten ourselves against the wall, hearts pounding so loud it’s a wonder Nathan can’t hear us through the brick.
The door bursts open with a crash, and Nathan barrels out, rage etched across every hard line of his face.
“Where are you, you fucking bitch!” he shouts, his voice echoing off the concrete.
“Big fucking mistake,” Zayn growls, and before Nathan can react, Zayn is on him—arms like steel, one fist in Nathan’s hair, the other slamming a chloroform-soaked rag over his nose and mouth.
Nathan thrashes, wild and desperate, his fists swinging, boots kicking up gravel, but Zayn holds tight, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing with vengeance.
Alex moves in, helping pin Nathan to the ground, their movements practiced and ruthless.
It doesn’t take long; Nathan goes slack, limp in Zayn’s grip, his struggles fading to nothing.
Alex and Zayn waste no time—flipping him over, zipping his wrists behind his back, then binding his ankles tight with zip ties, every motion efficient and merciless.
I dig through Nathan’s pockets, pulse racing, sweat slick on my palms, and pull out his phone. The screen is still lit up from his last text. I type out a message to Charles:
911. Clubhouse now. My thumb hovers a second, then I hit send, the gravity of this moment settling in my chest. Zayn drags Nathan across the gravel to the Jeep and throws him in the back with zero care, muttering, “Piece of fucking garbage.” The slam of the hatch is satisfying—a punctuation on the night.
Almost immediately, Nathan’s phone buzzes with Charles’s reply:
Be there in 30.
A grin breaks across my face, cold and sharp, adrenaline still surging. “Let’s go,” I say, my voice more dangerous than I’ve ever heard it. “Charles is on his way.”
Zayn and Ayla climb into the Jeep with Nathan’s unconscious body, while Alex and I lead on our bikes.
We tear down the highway, the wind rough and wild against my clothes.
My pulse pounds, my thoughts spinning with what comes next.
I think about Ayla in that club—she’s like a fucking goddess, every bit of pain and trauma forged into something lethal, something unstoppable.
Tonight, she’s not just surviving—she’s about to become someone’s reckoning, and I can’t fucking wait.
We pull up to the back of the so-called castle—really, just a house of horrors, the place where her nightmares began.
My heart pounds as I climb off my bike, the air thick with anticipation and the metallic taste of vengeance.
Alex and I move toward the Jeep just as Zayn hauls Nathan out, slung limp over his shoulder like dead weight.
Ayla steps out too, her eyes dark and unreadable, her jaw set in grim determination.
We don’t waste a second. Zayn lugs Nathan’s limp, zip-tied body down the basement stairs, each heavy bootfall echoing through the halls like a countdown to reckoning.
The air in the house buzzes—electric and deadly, sharp with the metallic scent of sweat, fear, and resolve.
Alex and I wait in the foyer, guns holstered but ready, every sense on high alert.
I check the street through the cracked blinds, counting heartbeats.
The world outside is silent, a hush that feels like the universe itself is holding its breath.
Minutes crawl by, tension mounting, until Charles’s luxury sedan pulls up to the curb—right on time, just like Dean predicted. He walks in, suit wrinkled, tie askew, head down as he mutters, “Nathan, what’s going o—”
He doesn’t get another word out. I’m on him in a blink, a chloroform-soaked rag clamped over his mouth and nose before he can even think to fight.
Charles thrashes, wild and desperate, but I hold him until the chemical hits—he sways, goes slack, and collapses in my arms. Fury blazes up in me, white-hot, and I can’t help myself: I drop him and kick his body, once, twice, three times, each blow a promise of what’s to come.
Alex catches my arm, his voice low and commanding.
“Save it. We’ve got time for that later. Let’s get him downstairs.”
He takes over, dragging Charles’s dead weight down the basement steps to join Nathan.
The house is quiet except for the thud of bodies, the rasp of breath, the distant hum of the city outside.
I turn, pulling Ayla into my arms, needing to feel she’s real, alive, here.
She’s trembling—shaking with adrenaline, her eyes wide and wild, pupils blown so huge her irises are nearly black, her breath coming in ragged bursts.
I cradle her face, awe and pride tangled in my voice. “Holy shit, that was fucking incredible.”
Ayla meets my gaze, and for the first time since all this began, there’s a slow, dangerous grin spreading across her lips—a look that says she’s ready to be judge, jury, and executioner.
“I’m just getting started,” she whispers, her voice razor-sharp.
I lean in, kissing her with all the fire and relief and promise I have left.
She pulls back, her smile wicked and feral. “Show time.”