Chapter 16
16
A fter last night, the air is thick with anticipation as the last streaks of daylight disappear, leaving the manor bathed in twilight. I stand in the grand hall, clutching the comforter around my shoulders. It’s starting to feel less like armor and more like something to keep me warm—exactly the way a blanket should.
I sense them before they emerge from the shadows, circling me like wolves. Their eyes glint in the dim light, their presence feels heavier, more purposeful than usual.
“Our sweet little Celest,” Whit drawls, his tone dripping with mock affection, while his eyes scan me hungrily.
“By the end of the night, you’ll belong to us,” Beckett says, his tone calm—matter-of-fact—as if it’s a foregone conclusion.
I feel my chest tighten, but I push back the rising fear. I clench my fists around the comforter and stand up straight, my voice shaking but strong enough to carry. “I don’t belong to anyone. I didn’t escape my past just to become someone else’s property.”
Never again.
For a moment, all three of them go still. The tension stretches taut, their eyes boring into me. Then Quinn grins—wicked and amused. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I snap, my voice sharper this time. “I won’t. I refuse.” I’ll never let anyone claim me as property ever again.
“Why’s that?” Beckett asks, his tone placating as they step closer, crowding me, their movements slow and deliberate.
It’s enough to crack the flimsy walls I’ve built around my composure. The words spill out of me before I can stop them, tumbling over each other in a panic-fueled rush.
“I—I’m afraid of you, okay?”
“As you should be, princess. But what makes you fear belonging to us?” Whit asks.
“Past experiences, and…” I trail off, afraid to say what I really think of them.
“Aaand?” Quinn teases.
“And you’re—well, that is—I have a theory.” Oh, God. What happens when they find out I know?
Beckett raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. “A theory?”
I nod quickly, my throat dry, my voice a couple of octaves higher than normal. “Yes. I’ve noticed some—uh—peculiar things. Unnatural even.”
Quinn’s grin widens as he steps closer, eyes gleaming. “Go on.”
Oh god, this is it.
I really don’t want to say it.
“Well, I’ve never seen you during the day. Not once. You only ever show up at night. And y’all have this… air of danger about you. And—and you travel through shadows.”
“So, your theory?” Beckett asks again.
I swallow hard, my heart racing—I’m certain they can hear it.
I wonder if that makes them hungry?
Not the time, Celest!
I never thought these words would come out of my mouth, and I’m terrified to speak them. I really don’t want to know what they’ll do once they find out I know their secret.
I’ve thought long and hard about it. There really hasn’t been much else to do. I even found books in the library that, for all intents and purposes, confirmed my theory—as much as they could, anyway.
The silence stretches as my eyes flick from one to the other. I swallow hard, taking a breath before I finally say, “You—you’re…” I clear my throat, wishing I could crawl under my comforter. Beckett waves me on.
“V-vampires,” I whisper, staring at the floor, my voice barely audible. “Right?”
There’s a beat of silence.
And another.
And then Quinn bursts out laughing, doubling over and clutching his stomach. “This is the skin of a killer!” he declares, holding his arms out dramatically, grinning like an idiot. He’s laughing so hard that his voice cracks. I stare at him, bewildered. I really don’t see what’s so funny about this.
“Quinn, shut up,” Beckett mutters with a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. A faint twitch of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Whit rolls his eyes and smacks him on the back of the head while Quinn’s doubled over, trying to catch his breath.
Quinn straightens, still chuckling, and shakes his head. “You’re killing me, sweetheart.” He laughs again, muttering under his breath, “Vampires.”
Before I can protest, Beckett steps forward, his gray gaze locking onto mine. Without warning, he throws me over his shoulder—again—like I weigh nothing. I gasp, flailing for a moment, but freeze when he slaps my rear hard enough to sting.
“Put me down!” I screech, kicking my legs and pound my fists against his back, but he doesn’t so much as flinch—only tightens his arms around my legs, pinning them to his chest.
“No can do,” he says dryly. “We’ve got somewhere to be.”
They move with purpose, their strides steady and silent as Beckett carries me down the maze-like halls. I twist, trying to see where we’re going, but the angle makes it impossible.
They haul me through several turns before stopping in front of a wall covered in framed paintings. I do not trust the paintings in this place. Beckett shifts me slightly, allowing me to see over his shoulder. Whit steps forward and swings open a small frame in the wall. He lines his eye up with what looks like a scanner, and with a low hum, the entire wall slides away, revealing a dark staircase leading into the unknown. I’m stunned into silence by the discovery.
My stomach drops as they step toward the stairs. “No,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “No, no, no—I don’t want to go down there.”
It’s their crypt.
It must be.
What are they planning to do to me once they have me down there?
I don’t think I want to know.
“Oh well,” Beckett says, tightening his grip. He starts down the stairs, the others following close behind.
“I’m serious!” I cry, panic bubbling over. “I—I don’t… please don’t eat me! I swear, I won’t tell anyone!”
Quinn snickers, his voice dripping with mischief. “Oh, we’re going to eat you, sweetheart—just not in the way you’re thinking.”
Beckett shakes his head, the vibrations from his movement reaching me before I hear the quiet chuckle slipping through his otherwise stoic demeanor. Whit barks out a laugh and claps Quinn on the shoulder. “Nice one.”
I expected torches, dripping stalactites, and the stench of death and decay on the way down—not this. It’s massive and more like an underground military base than a basement—or a crypt. High ceilings and sleek black walls gleam faintly under the motion-sensor lights. It’s both awe-inspiring and eerily organized, as if chaos and control met somewhere in the middle to create this place.
Beckett sets me down, and I wobble slightly, my legs still shaky from the stairs—and everything else. I clutch the edge of a nearby table to steady myself, my eyes darting around the room. It’s overwhelming: a mix of high-tech equipment and carefully arranged weapons, all neatly contained in their designated sections around the expansive space.
Who are they?
“This,” Whit says, sweeping his arms out dramatically, “is the Batcave.”
I blink, brow furrowing as I take a step forward, rubbing my arms against my chill-pricked skin. I realize my comforter must have been dropped somewhere along the way. “Why do you call it that?” I ask cautiously, half-expecting an ominous response.
“Why do you think?” Whit grins, clearly expecting me to get it.
Whatever it is.
“Are there… bats?” My voice wavers as I glance around nervously, scanning the high corners of the room for any sign of fluttering wings.
“No bats,” Beckett says dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. His tone is flat, yet there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes.
Quinn groans dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Batman!”
I shift uncomfortably, a flush creeping up my neck. “I haven’t,” I admit quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
Quinn looks like he’s been physically wounded. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unacceptable.” He points a finger at Whit. “We’re fixing this—tonight.”
Whit chuckles, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry, Celest. We’ll just have to show you. There are several movies, but Batman Returns is clearly the best.”
“He’s lying to you,” Quinn interrupts, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. “ Batman Forever is the masterpiece.”
“He’s the only person in the world who thinks that,” Beckett mutters, his lips twitching into a smirk.
Whit snorts, and I can’t help but smile, the tension in my chest easing just a little.
But only a little. It’s like they’re totally different men, and I don’t trust it.
Whit leads me toward one side of the room, where an entire wall is covered in weapons. Knives, guns, small metal things in the shape of stars, and even more things I can’t begin to identify are arranged with almost obsessive precision. Each piece gleams under the faint light, proving how meticulously each has been cared for.
That’s… terrifying.
“Impressive, huh?” Whit asks, his tone light but proud.
I nod, swallowing hard. One word for it, I suppose. “Do you… actually use all of them?”
“Every single one,” Beckett says from behind me, his arms crossed and his voice more casual than I’ve ever heard it. “Each has its purpose.”
Oh, so they plan to use all of these on me? Is that the point of showing me this?
Quinn leans against the wall, twirling a knife between his fingers. “And some are just for fun,” he adds with a grin.
I give him a wary look, and he laughs. “Relax, sweetheart. We don’t bite—unless you ask nicely.”
We move toward a bank of computers, their screens glowing brightly. Sleek and modern, they display complex graphs, maps, and what appears to be surveillance footage. I stare at them, my mind racing to make sense of what I see.
Again, I ask myself—who are they?
“What’s all this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. This is so far beyond the scope of what I thought I’d find down here.
“Our work,” Beckett replies, stepping forward to tap a few keys on one of the keyboards. Work? The screen shifts, revealing a detailed map with dozens of blinking red dots. “This is how we track our targets.”
I glance at him, a growing sense of unease building. “Targets?” I repeat.
Whit leans against the desk, his expression softening slightly. “We’re contract killers. This is how we plan, how we move. Everything starts here.”
“Assassins!” Quinn yells, and the others groan. I’m getting the sense this is a regular debate for them.
“That sounds far cooler than ‘contract killers,’” he adds, altering his voice to mimic Whit’s in a ridiculous way.
Contract killers? Assassins?
I knew they were dangerous—but this? They stand around me, acting as if announcing they’re killers is akin to announcing they’re architects, which, to them, it might very well be.
They’re not just killers; they’re professionals—trained, organized, and incredibly lethal. I swallow hard, my mind scrambling for something—anything—to distract me from the fact that I’ll likely never leave this place alive. I’m not sure what’s more frightening—vampires or assassins?
I shove that thought down, tucking it away for later.
The farther we go, the more this place feels like something out of a movie—dark, sprawling, almost too incredible to be real. Yet, the reality of it is unmistakable. Everything has a purpose, a function, and every corner tells me this is more than just where they work—it’s where they live.
I knew they lived under the manor—I knew it.
As we pass through another heavy steel door—this one opening with the simple push of a button—I step into a hallway that feels… warmer. Not in temperature, but in atmosphere. The ceiling is lined with recessed lights, casting a softer glow than the cold fluorescents that lit the rest of the space. The air carries a faint scent of leather and cedar. It’s less a cave, more a home.
“This is where we live when we aren’t working—that’s why you’ve never seen us in the big house,” Whit says.
The first door opens, and I immediately know it belongs to Beckett. The room is stark—clean and precise, just like him. The walls are deep charcoal gray, the only splash of color coming from a single piece of abstract art hanging above a low, modern bed, which is neatly made, the dark sheets pulled tight without a single wrinkle. Almost militaristic.
A desk sits against one wall, its surface meticulously organized. A leather-bound notebook lies closed beside a set of perfectly aligned pens and a small, sleek laptop. A shelf holds a handful of books—history, strategy, philosophy—all lined up like soldiers in formation.
I step inside hesitantly, running my fingers over the edge of the desk. “It’s so… neat,” I murmur.
“Control freak,” Quinn says under his breath.
Beckett stands in the doorway, arms crossed. “Clutter is a distraction,” he says simply, his sharp gaze watching me carefully.
“It’s very… you,” I say before I can stop myself. His lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smile, but he doesn’t respond.
The next room couldn’t be more different. Whit’s space feels warm and inviting, like stepping into a cozy cabin. The walls are paneled in rich wood, and the furniture is sturdy yet comfortable, with a large leather armchair positioned near a tall bookshelf crammed with novels—everything from classics to thrillers. A soft, well-worn throw blanket drapes over the arm of the chair, and a small table beside it holds a mug and a stack of what looks like journals.
The bed is large and unmade, the thick plaid comforter rumpled as if he’s just climbed out of it. A faint scent of coffee and something earthy—like pine—lingers in the air.
“You’re messy,” I blurt out, my cheeks heating as Whit laughs. I really need to get better control of my mouth.
“It’s called lived-in, princess,” he says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Not all of us have control issues like Beck.”
“I heard that,” Beckett calls from the hallway.
When we step into the following room, I can’t help but laugh. It’s… chaos. The walls are covered in posters—some framed, others tacked up haphazardly—of bands, movies, and random quotes that make no sense to me but clearly mean something to him. The bed is a mess of mismatched pillows and blankets, while the floor is littered with a strange mix of workout gear, clothes, books, and what appears to be a half-assembled gadget.
A vintage record player sits in one corner, surrounded by stacks of vinyl records. The air hums faintly with the scent of something spicy—maybe cologne or aftershave. On a small table near the bed, an open notebook filled with doodles and scribbles catches my eye.
“Don’t judge me,” Quinn says, grinning as he steps around me and flops onto the bed. “Creative genius looks a lot like chaos to the untrained eye.”
I raise an eyebrow and fold my arms. “Is that what you’re calling this?”
“Hey, it works for me,” he says, kicking his feet up and tossing a pillow at Whit, who catches it with ease.
“It’s… interesting,” I say diplomatically, earning a bark of laughter from Whit and a mock-wounded expression from Quinn, which makes me smile.
They’re so… normal. Which version of them is real?
At the end of the hall is a shared lounge area. It’s a mix of all their personalities—a massive sectional sofa piled with mismatched pillows, a coffee table covered in files and empty coffee mugs, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. A stack of board games leans precariously atop a shelf, while the other shelves are filled with books, movies, and a few odd knickknacks.
“This is where we unwind,” Whit says, gesturing to the space. “Well, some of us. Beck only sits here if he’s forced to. The guy is allergic to relaxing.”
Beckett rolls his eyes. “I’m more than capable of relaxing—I’m here more than you think.”
“Sure, sure,” Quinn says, flopping onto the couch. “But only if a documentary’s involved.”
I glance around, taking it all in. The space is chaotic, cozy, and somehow… normal. For all their sharp edges and dangerous games, this feels like a glimpse of something softer.
Something real… but can I trust it?
Off to the side, a cozy kitchen area is tucked into one corner of the space. It’s smaller than the massive, outdated kitchen upstairs, but it feels warmer and more inviting. The cabinets are dark wood, and the countertops are smooth, polished granite. A stainless steel fridge hums quietly in the corner, a wide island with barstools tucked under it, and an open shelf filled with mugs, plates, and jars of what appear to be spices and… snacks .
They have snacks? My gaze snaps in to the fridge, and before I can stop myself, I imagine it filled with food.
Real food.
My stomach growls loudly, breaking the silence. All three men turn to look at me.
“Something on your mind, sweetheart?” Quinn asks, a grin tugging at his lips.
I can’t help it, and I don’t care to try—the words spit out, sharp and angry. “You’ve had all of this down here the whole time while I’ve been starving for nearly a week?”
Whit’s brow furrows, and Beckett straightens from his lean against the counter. For once, Quinn doesn’t have a smart comment.
“You’ve been starving?” Whit asks, his voice quieter, as if he didn’t quite hear me.
“Yes!” I snap, my frustration boiling over. “The kitchen upstairs is practically empty! I’ve been eating crackers and peanut butter like some stray dog while you’ve had this whole… feast hiding down here?”
Quinn blinks, startled by the outburst, then lets out a nervous laugh. “Well… that’s on us, I guess.”
“You think?” I say, throwing my hands up and heading toward the fridge.
I yank open the door, my jaw dropping. It’s stocked—overflowing, really—with fresh fruits, vegetables, cheeses, deli meats, cartons of eggs, and even a couple of pies. There’s milk, juice, soda, and energy drinks. My stomach twists painfully, a sharp reminder of how little I’ve eaten since arriving here.
I turn back to them, my expression a mix of disbelief and anger. “You mean to tell me I could’ve been eating real food this whole time?”
Quinn scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish for once. “Uh, yeah. Guess we should’ve thought about it.”
Whit steps forward, holding his hands up as if he’s trying to calm me down. Fool. You can’t calm a hungry woman. “We didn’t think you’d go hungry. There’s food upstairs?—”
“Barely!” I snap, cutting him off. “Did you not hear me? I’ve been living off crackers and a half-empty jar of peanut butter. That’s it.”
Beckett lets out a long breath, his jaw tightening. “That’s… fuck, I’m sorry. It’s unacceptable,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “We should have made sure you had enough to eat.”
“Really? You don’t say.” My voice drips with sarcasm. My stomach growls again—louder this time—and I glare at them. “Move. I’m eating everything.”
Quinn grins and steps aside with a dramatic bow. “All yours, sweetheart. Knock yourself out.”
I grab an apple from the fridge and bite into it so hard that juice runs down my chin. I don’t care. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted in days.
Whit leans against the counter, watching me with a small frown. “We’ll make it up to you,” he says, his voice softer. “We didn’t realize.”
I swallow a mouthful of apple and give him a hard look. “You didn’t ask. And you should’ve.”
Beckett nods, his expression serious. “You’re right. It won’t happen again.”
Quinn nudges Whit with his elbow. “Better make her a real meal, big guy. She’s not going to forgive us for crackers and peanut butter.”
“No, I’m not. But later. I’m too hungry to wait,” I mutter, reaching for another apple.
I eat, but I don’t let my guard down—not completely. Their apologies comes too quickly, too easily, like flipping a switch. They’ve spent days making me feel helpless, and now I’m supposed to believe they just… forgot? My fingers tighten around my sandwich. No—I won’t be that easy to win over.
The apples are just the beginning. By the time I’ve raided the fridge and cabinets, I’ve assembled a mismatched feast: a turkey sandwich, grapes, a handful of chips, and a slice of pie that looks too good to ignore.
“You can have more,” Whit says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
“I don’t want to get sick. You have to reintroduce food to an empty stomach carefully.” He looks at me with his far-too-observant eyes.
“How do you know that?” he asks. I don’t want to tell them about Josiah. I’m not sure they wouldn’t hand me over to him.
“Experience.” His eyes squint as if he’s considering more questions, but he doesn’t push, and I relax—just a little more.
Tucked into a corner of the couch in the lounge, I balance my plate on my lap as the guys move around the room, their energy noticeably lighter than before.
It puts me on edge.
“All right,” Quinn says, clapping his hands together as he drops onto the opposite end of the couch. “Time to fix your tragic lack of cultural knowledge. Beck, hit the lights.”
Beckett, already standing near the wall, flips a switch. The room dims as a massive screen slides down from the ceiling, covering the mounted television. I stare at it, my sandwich halfway to my mouth. “That’s a bit excessive. You have a perfectly large flat-screen television.”
“It’s awesome,” Quinn corrects, grinning. “And it’s perfect for what we’re about to do. The TV can’t compete.”
Whit settles into the armchair next to me, throws a blanket over his lap, and gets cozy. I’m having a hard time reconciling this Whit with Blue Mask. “We’re starting with Batman Returns ,” he says, shooting Quinn a warning look before he can object. “You can get your weird Batman Forever agenda out of the way later.”
Quinn groans but doesn’t argue. Beckett takes the seat closest to the remote, his movements calm and deliberate as he navigates the menu. The opening credits roll, the eerie orchestral music filling the room, and I can’t help but feel a small thrill of excitement about watching a movie I know I’m not supposed to.
I take a bite of my sandwich, my eyes glued to the screen as the first scenes play out. It’s darker than I expected—both literally and figuratively—and I find myself drawn in almost immediately. The shadows, the music, the characters—it’s captivating.
“Michelle Pfeiffer’s Catwoman,” Whit whispers, nodding toward the screen. “Best portrayal, hands down.” I nod, like I have any idea what he’s talking about, as I chew.
“Debatable,” Quinn mutters, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“Not debatable,” Beckett says not looking up, his tone flat but resolute.
I glance at them, a smile tugging at my lips despite my wariness. They’re nothing like I thought they were—assuming they’re being genuine. Each is so different, yet they fit together in a way I don’t quite understand. For the first time since I arrived, I feel a little less like an outsider and a little more like… I belong.
Which is insane. It’s too soon for that—too soon to think about what this is or what it could be. They’re still the same men who have been holding me against my will for a week. This is still a prison—just a much larger, nicer one than I thought.
I shake off the thoughts quickly, focusing on my food and the movie. For now, it’s enough to sit here, eat my sandwich, and lose myself in Gotham’s dark and twisted streets.
I can worry later—much later.