42. Syn
42
SYN
The road stretches endlessly before us, a dark grey ribbon cutting through the countryside. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the SUV window, watching rain-heavy clouds drift across the morning sky. My body still aches from my heat, but my mind is razor-sharp, focused on one thought that pounds in rhythm with my heartbeat: Amélie.
“Edinburgh ETA three hours,” Tarquin says from the driver’s seat, his voice clipped.
I catch his eyes in the rearview mirror. The ice blue is colder than I’ve ever seen it, absent the warmth I’ve grown accustomed to when he looks at me. This isn’t my alpha—this is Sir Tarquin Brayfield, the strategist, the commander. The predator.
Beside me, Tristan squeezes my hand gently. “You should try to eat something,” he murmurs, offering a bag of snacks.
I shake my head. My stomach is a tight knot of anxiety and anticipation. “I can’t.”
“Tarquin,” Declan says from the passenger seat. “Malcolm’s sending updated satellite imagery. Rayne’s still on-site.”
My pulse jumps at the mention of Jeremy’s name. Two years, more, of fear and helpless rage surge through me. My fingernails dig crescents into my palms.
Tarquin replies, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel, “Forward it to my tablet. I want to review the approach again.”
“We’ve been over it six times,” Tristan points out, his tone carefully neutral.
Tarquin’s jaw tightens. “And we’ll go over it six more if necessary.”
“The plan is solid,” Declan interjects. “Unless Rayne suddenly employs a private army, we’re overprepared as it is.”
“Better than underprepared.”
Well, no one can argue with that.
The tension crackles between them, alpha energy filling the vehicle. My anxiety spikes. If they’re at odds going into this...
“Everyone’s just focused,” Tristan says quietly, responding to my unspoken concern. He squeezes my hand again.
I nod, grateful for his steady presence. While Declan prepares with cold accuracy and Tarquin obsesses over every detail, Tristan maintains an equilibrium that anchors us all.
“Tell me about Amélie,” he says, changing the subject. “What was she like as a baby?”
The question catches me off guard, a welcome distraction from my spiralling thoughts.
“Perfect,” I whisper, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything. “She had these tiny fingers that would curl around mine when she slept. And she was so curious—always watching everything with these big blue eyes.”
I see Tarquin’s gaze flick to the rearview mirror again, softening slightly as he listens.
“She’d laugh whenever I sang to her,” I continue, memories flooding back like a tide. “Even though I’m terrible at singing, and she loved when I’d dance with her in my arms.”
“You’ll dance with her again,” Tristan promises.
I swallow hard. “She won’t remember me.”
“Don’t,” Tarquin says sharply, then gentles his tone. “Don’t torture yourself with what-ifs. We focus on the mission, on getting her back. Everything else comes after.”
I nod, but the fear remains. Two years is forever to a child Amélie’s age. What if Jeremy has poisoned her against me? What if?—
The secure phone in the centre console rings, cutting through my thoughts. Tarquin answers immediately, putting it on speaker.
“Go ahead.”
“Sir,” a stern male voice comes through clearly. “Visual confirmation on the child. East wing, second floor, currently in what appears to be a playroom with a caretaker. Female, approximately fifty, unarmed.”
My breath catches. Amélie is there. Really there.
“And Rayne?” Tarquin asks.
“Study on the main floor. He’s alone.”
I lean forward, unable to stop myself. “Is she okay? Does she look well?”
A brief pause. “The child appears healthy, ma’am. Well-dressed, adequately nourished.”
I sink back, tears pricking behind my eyes. At least Jeremy hasn’t neglected her physically. It’s a small mercy, but I cling to it.
“Maintain surveillance,” Tarquin instructs. “We will be there in about three hours.”
“Understood, sir.”
The call ends, and silence falls over the SUV. This is real. We’re really doing this. After two years of helplessness, of being bled dry by Jeremy’s demands, I’m hours away from seeing my daughter.
“I should have gone to the police again,” I say suddenly, the words bursting from me. “I should have fought harder, found a way?—”
“Syn,” Tristan interrupts gently. “You did everything you could. The system failed you both.”
“He’s right,” Tarquin says, his eyes meeting mine briefly in the mirror. “But it won’t fail you again. Not while we’re here.”
The fierce certainty in his voice spreads warmth through my chest. These alphas—my alphas—are breaking laws, risking everything to reunite me with my daughter. The realisation is humbling and terrifying.
Knowing we can’t get there any faster, even though I wish we could, I sit back and close my eyes, hoping and praying that the hope I feel isn’t dashed to smithereens in a few hours’ time.
“We’re here,” Tristan murmurs three hours later, as Tarquin guides the SUV down a private drive toward a modern house nestled against the edge of a small wood.
My stomach lurches as we pull to a stop. This is our staging area—the last stop before… I don’t even know what is going to happen.
A man emerges from the house as we exit the vehicle, his weathered face betraying nothing. “Everything’s prepared inside,” he says. “Latest intelligence on the table.”
Tarquin nods, placing his hand at the small of my back as we enter. The gesture is both protective and comforting. Inside, the house has been transformed into an operations centre. Maps cover one wall, surveillance photos another. Equipment cases line the floor, their contents organised like a military operation. I gulp and wring my hands, feeling out of place.
“Syn,” Tarquin says, guiding me to a table where a detailed floor plan is spread out. “This is where Amélie is being kept.”
I study the map, committing every detail to memory. “Where will I be during all this?”
A loaded silence falls. The alphas exchange glances.
“You’ll remain here,” Tarquin says finally. “It’s too dangerous?—”
“No,” I interrupt, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “I’m coming with you. I need to be there when you find her. She’ll be scared—she needs to see me.”
Declan shakes his head. “The risk is too high.”
“This isn’t a debate,” I say, looking each alpha in the eye. “I’m her mother. I’m coming.”
Another silent exchange passes between them, a conversation without words that ends with Tarquin’s slight nod.
“You’ll stay in the vehicle until we secure the location,” he says, his tone making it clear this isn’t negotiable. “Then and only then will Tristan bring you in. To see Amélie. Not Rayne.”
The words hang heavy in the air. What happens to Jeremy will happen without my witness. Part of me wants to object, to insist on facing the man who stole my child and years of my life. But a deeper instinct holds me back. Some endings are better left unwitnessed.
As the guys continue their preparations, Tristan leads me to a quiet corner of the room.
As Declan and Tarquin have a hushed heated discussion about something. “What is it?” I ask, pushing past Tristan. “What’s wrong?”
“Declan wants to go now,” Tarquin states.
“Then what are we waiting for?” I ask.
“The idea was to move when they are least likely to be on alert.”
“I can’t just sit here and wait,” I say. “I want to go now.”
His eyes soften, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. “Okay,” he says, and I see the concession is a rarity for him.
The rare moment of vulnerability cuts through my own anxiety. I lean into his touch. “Thank you.” Tears prick at my eyes. “I never expected this. Any of this.”
“None of us did.” His smile is gentle. “But here we are.”
“Time to move out then,” Declan says.
Activity erupts around me. I watch with trepidation, that bloom of hope getting bigger by the second. Please. Please.
Tristan leads me back to the SUV and as we pull away from the house, I stare at the darkening sky, the storm clouds forming overhead. So close now. So incredibly close to holding my daughter again.
Tristan’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently. “We’ve got this,” he murmurs. “We’ve got you.”
I cling to those words as we drive through the gathering storm, willing them to be true.