Chapter 3
LIAM
The warehouse smells of old oil, stale air, and the unmistakable stench of fear.
There’s a steady drip of water from a leaky pipe, and a chain swings from a ceiling hook.
This is one of many Mahoney strongholds across the UK—a place where secrets are bled out of men who thought they were untouchable.
Men who believed they were strong, yet they broke, and she will, too.
I haul Rowan through the warehouse by her hair. She jerks under my grip and a small choked sound slips past her lips as her feet scrape against the concrete.
My blood’s bubbling just below the surface, a soul-deep violence ready to break out and wreak havoc on the woman who betrayed me all those years ago.
Vengeance.
Five years of unanswered questions burn in my gut.
She’s still playing the “Erin” card. Her body’s limp, her eyes wide and wet, and she’s pale as a sheet. I don’t fucking care. I propel her toward a heavy steel chair bolted to the concrete floor under a single, buzzing bulb.
“Sit.”
She flinches at my growl, and I don’t bother fighting the sinister smile that spreads across my face. For a split second, she doesn’t move, like she’s weighing her chances of bolting for the door.
Go on. Run. Make my fucking day.
She stumbles, her knees buckling as she falls into the seat. I don’t help her. I reach into my pocket, pull out a pair of heavy-duty zip ties, and jerk her wrists behind the back of the chair.
I can taste her fear on the air with every breath that saws in and out of her lungs, and I thrill in it. She should fear me.
“Please.” Her voice trembles as she whispers, tears blooming in her eyes. Tears as fake as she is. “My name is Erin. I don’t know why you’re doing this.”
She’s repetitive, I’ll give her that. But even if she admitted to being Rowan right now, she’d still probably tremble in fear.
The woman I fell in love with knows exactly what I’m capable of, and over the years, I’ve further honed my skills.
Though back in the day, my violence was always aimed at other people. Never her.
Not this time.
I lean down, my face mere inches from hers. I want her to see the jagged scar she’s responsible for. Her gaze snags on it instantly, her breath catching as though she remembers exactly how it got there. My memories replay it for me as if it had happened five minutes ago.
“Liam. Help me. I’m hurt. Please come.”
She knew I’d drop everything and go to her.
That fucking phone call almost cost me my life. Caught unawares, jumped, stabbed three times. Too late, I learned what a setup looks like. Too late, I learned that blind love can get you killed, or near as, dammit.
I trace the jagged line from my temple to my lip with the tip of a pocketknife—not to cut myself, but to remind her of what she cost me. And what it’s about to cost her if she doesn’t drop the Erin bullshit and start playing ball.
We can do this the easy way, or the hard way, and for those who make it hard for me, well, let’s just say few have lived to tell the tale, and fewer have survived with all their limbs intact.
I tap the knife once against the arm of the chair. The sound rings sharp in the empty warehouse. She jumps like a shiver bolted down her spine, her eyes widening.
I hook two fingers under her chin and force her face up into the light, ignoring the way she flinches.
“You’re going to tell me who you were working for and what they paid you to turn traitor,” I murmur, injecting ice into my words even as the “Mad Dog” in my chest strains at the leash.
“You’re going to tell me why you set me up, why you ran.
And if you keep up with this bullshit persona, I’ll cut the fucking truth out of you one finger at a time. ”