Chapter 23
Aurelia
“Yeah, I know, she’s insanely attractive.”
“Dude, she’s strapped to a pole.”
“Never stopped me.”
Their muffled laughter bounces around the walls, too loud, too smug. My stomach turns in disgust. I don’t even need to see their faces to know what kind of men they are: the type that mistake powerlessness for invitation. The type that thinks a restrained woman is entertainment.
A door creaks. Their boots scuff against the floor, lazy, careless. Then the heavy gate slams shut, metal on metal, the kind of sound that rattles through your bones.
Silence floods back in, thick and absolute.
For a second, I almost wish they were still here, just so the noise would distract from the reality pressing in around me.
Instead, it’s only the low hum of the pipes overhead, the occasional rattle of chains, and the faint drip of water somewhere in the corner.
Every sound feels amplified, the room itself reminding me: you’re trapped.
The restraints cut into my wrists when I flex my hands, a dull burn that never quite eases. I try again anyway, pushing and pulling—pointless but necessary. I need to know every centimetre of slack, every angle, every weakness they might have overlooked. Pain is better than sitting still.
My throat is desert-dry, my lips cracked, and when I swallow, it feels like dragging glass down my windpipe. The memory of their laughter makes my teeth clench until my jaw aches.
Keeping my eyes closed, I tilt my head back, breathing slow and controlled. If I let myself spiral—if I let rage eat me alive here—then they win.
Focus, Ace. Trace it back.
I force my breathing steady, replaying.
The SUV. Black. Parked too close to the fence. Wrong. I knew it was wrong. But I was so distracted by Elijah.
The attack was fast, precise. A gloved hand, a sting, then the world swam sideways, but I saw Hank.
My baby, my guardian.
I try not to picture his fur matted with blood. Try not to think of his loyal eyes watching as they dragged me away.
I know I should be thinking of anything else but all I need to know is if he’s still alive.
But does it even matter?
Even if he is alive, that doesn’t mean that I will be.
Would my father start a war over my life?
No.
Would my brother?
I don’t know.
I hope not, that would just get him killed. He still reports to Dante.
I close my eyes for a moment and let the sting of my reality hit.
I hope these pathetic men kill me quickly and let my brother heal and move on.
Enzo knew I was going to die, but I also knew he didn’t want it to be this soon.
I try to keep my memories tighter, squeezing them as I physically curl my hands into fists against the post. I will not lose it. I will not forget.
I will die with honour.
* * *
Somewhere across the room, I hear the sound of clanking metal, the scrape of chain dragging over concrete. I know there’s someone here with me. And though he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. I can feel his eyes on me, heavy in the dark.
I force my eyes to open slightly, looking to my right, but he must be behind me because I can’t see anything.
After a few minutes of silence, I allow myself to close my eyes again, exhausted from the constant struggle, but then a voice deep, threaded with amusement, makes my eyelids drag open, vision swimming.
“You make a cute angry face when you’re trying to wake up.”
A figure crouches on the ground in my peripheral vision.
I try to focus, and almost as if he can tell, he stands, moving forward so I can get a better look at him. His legs are chained at the ankles, and there’s a collar around his neck. I blink, what feels like a hundred times, until I get the fog to clear enough to study him.
Deep tanned skin. A lean, toned frame. Tattoos scatter across his back but stop abruptly at his shoulders, the rest of him clean. He looks like he could be my age, but his movements are confident and calculated.
“Who are you?” My words slur.
Whatever they drugged me with still clings, heavy and slow in my veins.
He lifts his head, giving me a clear look at his face. He has a strong jaw, and a scar trailing dangerously close to his right eye.
He smirks. “You really are very cute.”
His steps are fluid, chains clanking, giving him just enough slack to walk closer—close enough I can smell the faint sweat and iron. He stops a few inches away, looming over me where I’m strapped upright between two wooden beams.
I force my chin high, locking eyes with him. He’s attractive, sure, but chains don’t mean harmless. I’d be stupid to forget that.
“What did you do to end up strapped across two posts?” he asks, dipping low. His eyes flick briefly—too briefly—down the line of my body, and I’m reminded just how exposed I am, regardless of the fabric.
“I shot a man in the head.” My throat is dry, but I spit the words. “Guessing that upset them.”
His grin widens, flashing white teeth. “That’s probably a good guess.”
I don’t speak. I wait. Silence can be a weapon too. And, like most men, he can’t stand it for long.
“I owe them a couple grand,” he finally says with a shrug. “So I’m guessing that’s why I get chains and you get crucifixion.”
His accent snags my attention—faint, almost buried, but not exactly Russian. Something else, smoothed out by time and too much exposure to the wrong company.
I still don’t answer. Instead, I try to study him further, gauge his threat level, regardless of his words.
He takes a step toward me, causing my body to tense at his closeness.
He stops, tilting his head. “Look, you’re gorgeous, but I’m not a rapist. So if you could stop looking at me like I am, that’d be great.”
“I don’t know you,” I snap, my voice cracking through the haze.
“And I don’t know you.” His smirk tilts, not cruel, just amused. “But I’ve been here three months, and I’m bored. Plus, out of the two of us, only one has executed a man. Pretty sure that makes you scarier.”
A laugh almost slips out but I bite it back, shaking my head. “I’m not trusting you based on your word. So you can sit back down. I’m done talking.”
He doesn’t move right away. Instead, he stretches, his chains groaning with the effort, and his gaze lingers on me long enough to make my skin heat. “Yeah,” he mutters finally, almost to himself, “you’re definitely scarier.”
He leans back with a deliberate slowness. His chains scraping across the floor, back tattoos flexing and shifting with each step until he drops into a lazy sprawl against the far wall, this time, remaining in my eye line.
Then—clang.
The sound comes from my left, but I can’t see anything. Sharp metal on metal. My spine stiffens.
The chained man glances past me, eyes narrowing. His smirk returns, but this time it’s darker, edged. “You may want to be done talking,” he says softly, “but I don’t think that’s gonna stop them.”