Chapter 20
Elijah
It’s been two hours.
Ace hasn’t come out, and I’m still pacing the foyer, waiting for something to snap.
Hank won’t stop barking. Not the playful kind either. Probably pissed he’s missing out on his run.
I try to ignore it.
She said what she needed to say. Told me to fuck off, I meant nothing. And maybe I do. Maybe that’s all I’ve ever meant—a guard, a body, someone to carry her guilt when it’s convenient.
Still.
The way she looked at me…
Last night was a mistake. Not the girl. That was intentional. But the kitchen, the timing… letting Ace see it—that’s on me. She looked at me like I was trash.
But what was I supposed to do?
She gets under my skin. Always has. It’s either fuck or kill something. Enzo told me it would help. Get the edge off. He obviously doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.
I haven’t slept. I haven’t stopped seeing her standing in that damn tank top, eyes wet, chest rising in a way that made me think she was about to break.
I wanted to grab her and drag her back into bed.
Not to punish.
Not to comfort.
Just to remind her who I am.
Hank barks again.
“Not now,” I mutter.
He doesn’t stop.
I turn. Expecting to see him at the top of the stairs.
But he’s outside.
Behind the sliding door. Alone. Panting. Leashed. Bleeding.
The leash was in her room.
I step outside, heart crawling into my throat.
“Hank.” I crouch. “Where is she?”
He whines in response.
But there’s a chunk missing from his fur. A clean strip—knife work.
Fuck.
I spring to my feet, already moving—two stairs at a time—then shoulder the door open.
Her bed. Untouched.
Bathroom. Empty.
No signs of struggle. No blood. No noise.
Just gone.
“God—”
I slam the wall and hit the alarm on my phone, sirens cutting through the house like a scream. Red lights. Gunfire-ready energy. Doors slamming. Radios crackling.
But none of it matters.
They took her.
They fucking took her.
I should’ve stayed in her room. Sat in the corner like a dog if I had to, just to make sure she didn’t do anything reckless.
Instead, I gave her space. And now she’s gone.
Hank showed up outside, a warning sign I was too stupid to see. Leash on, coat ruffled, a patch of fur missing like someone used a blade to take it.
Aurelia De Luca isn’t someone you just take. Which means this isn’t about ransom. This is about power.
Nikolai Orlov.
Always polite, always controlled—a man who doesn’t want to set off a landmine, but enjoys pressing his foot down anyway. His interest in Aurelia was never casual.
And now she’s in his hands.
The thought sends acid through my bloodstream.
I should have noticed the signs. She took Hank without telling anyone. That’s not random. She felt something last night. And I dismissed it because I was too busy screwing someone else on her marble countertops like a soulless idiot.
She saw it and I broke something in her. Maybe trust. Maybe whatever thin string of hope she’d kept tucked in her chest that I’d one day choose her.
But she doesn’t get to disappear over my guilt. That’s not how this works.
I punch the side of the stair railing so hard that the wood cracks. Blood beads along my knuckles but I don’t care. The pain helps me focus.
The house is in full lockdown now. Enzo’s issuing silent orders with nothing more than a tilt of his head. The men are moving efficiently, ruthlessly, and terrified.
Because no one—no one—touches the girl without consequence.
But they don’t know her the way I do.
Aurelia isn’t waiting to be rescued. She’s planning her next move.
She’ll stay calm. She’ll play whatever game Orlov wants long enough to buy herself an inch. And if she finds that inch, she’ll cut a man’s throat with it.
But even with all that… she’s still a girl who’s alone in a cage right now. Someone probably already hit her. Maybe twice. Maybe worse.
And that’s on me.
That’s on me.
I run down the stairs and cut straight to the armoury. I’m not waiting for Enzo’s green light. I’m not standing around for strategy meetings. I’m not asking permission to hunt the men who took her.
She’s mine to protect.
And if I don’t bring her back alive, there won’t be a single Orlov left to bury.