41. Declan
41
DECLAN
The honeysuckle scent that’s saturated the house for days has finally begun to soften, losing that sharp edge of desperate need. I pause outside Syn’s door, listening for any sounds of distress, but I hear only the gentle rhythm of her breathing, heavy but not ragged from fever. Her heat is waning—not over, but the worst has passed.
I check my watch. Nearly noon. Tarquin’s specialist team will arrive within the hour.
Leaving Syn to rest, I make my way down to the basement level of the manor. Few guests ever see this part of our home. Behind a keypad-protected door lies the armoury.
The lights flicker on automatically as I enter, illuminating racks of weapons, tactical gear, and surveillance equipment. This room speaks to the parts of us that we keep hidden from polite society. The parts that understand sometimes life requires violence. I’ve always felt most comfortable here, among tools with clear purpose.
I pull out a large black case and lay it on the central table, the latches clicking open with satisfying exactness. Inside, nestled in custom foam inserts, lies a set of combat knives. I select one, testing its weight in my palm, the blade gleaming under the overhead lights.
Jeremy Rayne won’t survive the week. A monster who steals a child from her mother, who extorts and terrorises for years… there’s only one fitting end to that story.
The door opens, and Tarquin steps in. His icy blue eyes take in the open weapons case without surprise.
“They’ll be here in twenty,” he says, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. Even now, preparing for what amounts to a military operation, he looks like he could step into a boardroom meeting without missing a beat.
“How’s she doing?” I ask, returning the knife to its place and closing the case, even though I was only checking on her a few minutes ago.
“Still sleeping,” Tarquin replies. “The fever’s broken, but she’s exhausted. Tristan’s with her.”
I nod. Each of us has naturally fallen into our roles—Tristan the caretaker, Tarquin the commander, me... well, I’ve always been the weapon.
“I’ve been thinking about entry points,” I say, moving to the large touchscreen display on the far wall. I pull up the preliminary satellite images of Jeremy’s Edinburgh property that Tarquin’s investigator had sent moments ago, which rallied our meeting here. “If the surveillance is accurate, there are blind spots here and here.” I mark two areas with my finger.
Tarquin studies the marks, his expression calculating. “We’ll need better intel before committing.”
“Which is why I’ve been assembling this.” I gesture to the tactical gear I’ve laid out. “We can’t go in blind.”
The distant sound of vehicles on the driveway interrupts our planning. Tarquin’s phone buzzes with a security alert.
“They’re here,” he says, already turning toward the door.
We emerge from the basement to find Tarquin’s lead investigator, Malcolm Pierce, standing in the foyer. The man’s weathered face speaks to decades of experience, most of it likely classified.
“Sir Tarquin,” Malcolm nods. No handshakes, no pleasantries. This isn’t that kind of meeting.
“Malcolm,” Tarquin returns with equal brevity. “What have you got for us?”
“Everything,” Malcolm says, patting the secure laptop bag at his side. “Building schematics, security protocols, staff rotations. And confirmation on the target.”
My pulse quickens. “You’ve seen the girl?”
Malcolm’s eyes shift to me, assessing. “Yes. Three-year-old female, matching the description. Dark hair, blue eyes. She’s kept primarily in the east wing of the property. Limited outdoor access, always supervised.”
“And Rayne?” Tarquin asks.
“Present. Comes and goes on an irregular schedule, but he’s been on-site for the past forty-eight hours.”
“Show us,” I say, leading the way to the library.
Malcolm wastes no time and connects his laptop to our main display. The screen fills with high-resolution surveillance photos of a converted manor house set back from a winding country road. Expensive, especially in that part of the world and isolated. It makes me sick to think that Syn has been paying for this fucker’s lavish lifestyle while she has been grafting keeping alphas happy for years. If I could kill him twice, I would.
“This was taken today at 1100,” Malcolm says, clicking through to another image that zooms in on a garden area. “And this is our confirmation.”
The photo shows a small girl playing in a walled garden, a nanny or guard watching from nearby. Even from this distance, the resemblance to Syn is unmistakable.
“Amélie,” I murmur, staring at the image of the child who’s been the centre of Syn’s desperate struggle for two years. Something twists in my chest—pain mingled with determination. This isn’t just a mission anymore. It’s salvation.
“Security assessment?” I ask, tearing my eyes from the child to focus on the logistics.
Malcolm pulls up another set of images. “Two full-time security personnel, rotating in twelve-hour shifts. Basic surveillance system, motion sensors on the perimeter. Nothing we can’t handle.”
Tarquin and I exchange a glance. This guy has spared no expense. He is worried. Paranoid. So he should be.
“We can be ready to move by dawn tomorrow,” Malcolm replies. “Weather forecast shows cloud cover, limited visibility. Works in our favour.”
“And St. Clare?” I ask, looking to Tarquin.
“He’ll meet us in Edinburgh,” Tarquin confirms. “His only role is to confirm Amélie was alone when found. Whatever happens to Rayne is outside his official knowledge.”
Malcolm nods.
I can’t help but think of Scarlette, and it is like a knife between my ribs—precise, sharp, and intimate. Someone should have done for her what we’re doing for Amélie. The rage that never quite dies when I think of what was done to her flares up hot and ready. “No child should be a pawn in an adult’s game.”
Tarquin looks up at my statement and holds my gaze for a long moment before nodding once. Understanding passes between us—not sympathy, which I would reject, but recognition of a driving force that goes beyond our bond with Syn.
Turning from the planning, I head back upstairs, drawn inexorably to Syn’s room. I need to see her, to remind myself of why we’re doing this.
I find her still sleeping, though her brow furrows as if her dreams are troubled. Tristan sits in a nearby chair, looking up from his book as I enter.
“How’s the planning going?” he asks softly.
“Good. We need to leave as soon as she’s awake. Get settled before we make a move at dawn.”
Tristan nods, rising from his chair. “I’ll go help Tarquin. She’s been restless the past hour—might wake soon.”
After he leaves, I take his place in the chair, studying Syn’s sleeping form. The fierce, defiant omega who challenged us at every turn now looks almost fragile, her dark hair spilling across the pillow, her face softened in sleep. The raw need to protect her burns through me with an intensity that would have terrified me weeks ago.
“We found her,” I say quietly. Her eyes snap open. “We’ve seen her, Syn. We’re leaving soon.”
She leaps up without words, moving steadily towards the bathroom, her hands shaking, the only thing that betrays her nervousness and fear of what we might find when we get there.