44. Declan
44
DECLAN
The house breathes around me, settling into itself with occasional creaks and groans. I move silently through its rooms, following instinct more than any concrete trail. Jeremy’s study is empty, the leather chair still warm—he can’t have gone far.
The décor speaks volumes about the man we’re hunting. Everything is meticulously arranged, obsessively curated. Photographs perfectly aligned on walls. No personal touches, only statements of wealth and power. It reminds me of my father’s house—the mansion where precision was valued above joy, where children were possessions rather than people.
A faint sound draws my attention. The whisper of movement from downstairs. I follow the noise, each step measured and silent. I stick to the shadows, scanning for movement.
The sound grows louder as I retrace my steps to the rear of the house. The kitchen.
My mind flicks back to Scarlette, to finding her bruised and terrified in our father’s kitchen. “He doesn’t like it when dinner’s late,” she whispers, her thin fingers shaking as she tried to prepare a meal meant for adults to cook. She was nine. Mum was probably passed out drunk or worse. I can’t even remember.
I push the memory away. Now is not the time for ghosts.
The kitchen is modernised with gleaming surfaces and high-end appliances, all untouched. This isn’t a room where family meals are prepared; it’s a showpiece. A slight disturbance catches my eye. A drawer not fully closed. It’s a simple thing but one that screams out of place in this showroom.
I ease it open to find a set of expensive knives. One missing.
He’s armed . Good. I prefer a fair fight, even with scum like Rayne.
A barely perceptible draught touches my face, of air moving where it shouldn’t. I turn slowly, eyes tracking the source to a pantry door left slightly ajar. Too obvious for a hiding place, which means.
I approach carefully, ears straining for any sound. The pantry is dark, shelves stocked with foods that appear untouched—more props in Jeremy’s perfect life. At the back, a seam in the wall reveals what the house plans didn’t show: a hidden passage. “Fucking old manor house. They’ve more secrets than you can shake a stick at,” I mutter as I move forward.
I slip through the narrow opening into a crude corridor. Ancient emergency lights cast a sickly glow along the bare walls. Ahead, I hear the hurried shuffle.
He’s running. Coward.
I increase my pace, no longer concerned about silence. Let him hear me coming. Let him feel the hunt.
The passage curves downward, leading to what must be a cellar level. Jeremy’s footsteps quicken, panicked. A door slams. I round the corner to find myself in a wine cellar, rows of bottles gleaming dully in the low light.
“I know you’re here, Rayne,” I call, my voice echoing against the stone walls. “There’s nowhere to go.”
Silence greets me. Then, a rustling from behind a tall rack of vintage wine.
“This doesn’t have to end badly,” Jeremy’s voice emerges, cultured and controlled despite his situation. “I’m a reasonable man. We can discuss terms.”
I move carefully between the racks, tracking his position. “Terms were never on offer.”
“Money, then,” he suggests, his voice shifting position as he moves. “I can make it worth your while. More than whatever Synthia is paying you. A lot more.”
The casual dismissal of Synthia—our mate, our omega—ignites something dark in my chest. “She’s not paying us.”
That gives him pause. He is probably confused by the idea that someone could do something out of love.
I remain silent, closing in on his location.
“Take her,” Jeremy tries, desperation edging into his tone. “Take the girl. I’ve had my fill of playing daddy anyway.”
My hand tightens on my weapon. “Oh, we’re taking her, but you, you, my friend, are not getting out of here alive.” So, I know Tarquin wanted final dibs on this arsehole, but he’s not here. I am. And does it really matter who kills him as long as he is never a threat to Synthia or Amélie ever again?
I catch a glimpse of him between the wine racks, his expensive clothes rumpled, blond hair dishevelled, the stolen kitchen knife gleaming in his hand. He looks smaller than I pictured. Most monsters do, when cornered.
“My sister wasn’t a possession either,” I say, stepping into full view. “Though my father thought she was. Men like you always do.”
Jeremy’s eyes widen slightly, recognising the personal edge to my words. He raises the knife, his stance betraying his inexperience with weapons. “Stay back.”
“Did you hurt Amélie?” I ask, my voice deceptively calm as I advance. “Touch her the way my father touched Scarlette?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” Jeremy spits. “She’s a child. I’m not a deviant.”
“No, just a thief who steals children from their mothers and extorts them with false promises of return.”
His expression shifts, calculation replacing fear. “Mother. Is that what Synthia told you she was? A devoted mother cruelly separated from her child?”
I say nothing, continuing my approach.
“She abandoned that child,” Jeremy hisses. “Left her with me for weeks at a time while she chased other alphas. I rescued Amélie from her neglect.”
The lies slide off me like water. “You are the worst kind of scum. Lying to justify your monstrous actions.”
“Believe whatever fantasy she’s spun,” Jeremy sneers, but I hear the waver in his voice.
“I would believe her any day of the week over you, you piece of shit. I don’t even have to think about it. You preyed on Synthia, groomed her, coerced her, controlled her, scared her half to death, hit her, stole her child and made her pay for two years for nothing.”
Before Jeremy can react, I’ve closed the distance between us. The knife slashes wildly, catching the sleeve of my jacket but missing flesh. I grab his wrist, applying pressure that makes his fingers spasm open. The knife clatters to the stone floor.
I twist his arm behind his back. Jeremy struggles ineffectually. “She’ll never remember Synthia! Never! I’ve made sure of it!”
The pride in his voice, the smug certainty that his cruelty is some kind of victory, pushes me past restraint. My fist connects with his kidney, driving the air from his lungs in a pained whoosh. He crumples, but I hold him upright.
Jeremy gasps for breath, blood speckling his lips. “Please?—”
“I was too young to stop him ,” I say, each word punctuated by another punch. “But I can stop you.”
Jeremy slumps in my grip, consciousness wavering. I ease him against the wine rack, bottles rattling ominously above us. “I’m sorry,” he wheezes, blood staining his perfect white teeth. “I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again. The child is yours.”
“Her name is Amélie,” I correct him. “And she was never yours to give.”
“Please,” he tries again, hands raised in supplication. “I have money offshore. Accounts no one can trace. It’s yours. All of it.”
“How do you think we found you, arsehole? All that money is being wired to an account with Amélie’s name on it as we speak. You, after all, have no need for it. This ends now. No more threats. No more fear. Synthia and Amélie will never look over their shoulders for you again.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “You can’t! This is murder. You’ll be caught. Prosecuted.”
“No,” I say with absolute certainty, “I won’t.”
I slam Jeremy’s head against the stone wall with enough force to daze but not kill. Blood trickles from his scalp as I drag him fully into the wine cellar.
“Please,” he gasps, “we can work something?—”
I drive my fist into his solar plexus, cutting off his words. As he doubles over, I grab a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look at me.
“Did Amélie beg too?” I ask, voice cold as I twist his arm at an unnatural angle until something snaps. His scream echoes against the stone walls. “Did Synthia?”
Jeremy’s eyes bulge with pain and terror. I methodically break a finger when he tries to claw at my face. The crack is oddly satisfying.
“The difference,” I tell him as I force him to his knees, “is that I won’t stop when you beg. Two years of Synthia’s fear. Two years of a child without her mother.”
My blade sinks into his shoulder, deep enough to sever tendons but missing the artery. I twist the blade before withdrawing it. His scream turns to a gurgle as blood fills his mouth.
I let him drop and flip him onto his back with my foot.
“Look at me,” I command. “I want you to know exactly who’s ending your miserable life.”
His terrified eyes meet mine as I kneel beside him.
Never breaking eye contact, I slice the blade across his neck, making him gurgle and splutter and bleed out at my feet. The cut is deep, and it doesn’t take long.
His vacant eyes stare at the ceiling, frozen in a final understanding of what it means to be truly powerless. Looking around, improvising rather than being forced to dig a hole to shove him into, I spot an oak barrel on a rack in the corner. Crossing over to it. I pop the lid off it, and whiskey gushes out over my feet.
“Sorry to ruin you, mate. But this calls for something creative,” I say with regret to the amber liquid and set about making sure that no one will find Rayne for a very long time.