Chapter 30
30
W hen I wake, my face is puffy, my throat thick from crying. The heaviness in my chest is unbearable, pressing down like a weight I can’t shake. I clutch the chains around my wrists as if they could anchor me to something solid—something real. The cellar is quiet, save for the occasional shifting from the guys across the room. I keep my eyes shut, clinging to the silence, trying to delay the moment I have to face them.
I should know better than to think they would give me a choice.
“That’s enough,” Beckett says, his voice low but firm—the tone familiar, steady, grounding. When I open my eyes, I find him staring at me, his face battered yet resolute. “We’re not letting you sit here and blame yourself any longer.”
Whit watches me like I’m something unbreakable, like he refuses to see me as anything less. His voice is softer than Beckett’s but no less certain. “What your father did? What Josiah’s done? None of that is on you. Their insanity is their own—you don’t carry it.”
Despite the mottled bruises across his face, Quinn’s grin is pure defiance, “You’re a goddamn force, sweetheart. Most people wouldn’t have lasted a day in your shoes, and look at you now.” His swollen lip quirks, even through the pain. “You crashed into our world, learned to fight, and somehow made yourself the piece we didn’t even know was missing.”
Their words weave into my guilt-ridden mind, little by little, until the haze begins to lift. Beckett’s voice cuts through it. “Remember who you belong to, Celest.”
“And who we belong to,” Whit adds, his eyes locked on mine.
There’s a pause, their gazes heavy, waiting. Finally, Quinn asks, his tone deceptively casual, “Who do you belong to?”
I swallow hard, my voice barely above a whisper. “You. I belong to all of you.”
The tension breaks, their grim expressions softening. “Fuck yes, you do,” Quinn says with a wink. How they all seem unfazed by our current predicament is baffling.
“And who do we belong to?” Whit asks, his gaze intense in a way I don’t often see.
“Me,” I say, my hoarse voice crackling.
“Exactly.” Beckett’s tone is final, leaving no room for discussion. Not that any of us would.
“What time is it?” Whit asks, after a long stretch of silence. “It should be getting close.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
Quinn smirks, all smug confidence. “I told you we had a plan.”
Beckett leans against the wall, shaking off the last traces of drowsiness. His voice is calm, confident, despite the circumstances. “The first step was finding you. After sneaking in a few times and not finding the cellar door?—”
“Who hides their damn cellar door?” Quinn interrupts.
“You have an entire house that moves,” I deadpan.
“Touché.”
Beckett nudges Quinn in the ribs before continuing. “Anyway. When we couldn’t find you, we had to go with Plan B. We knew Josiah would set a trap, so we prepared for the worst. Getting caught was always part of the plan.”
Whit nods, a faint smile tugging at his lips, his eyes sharper now, more alert. “The drugs were a surprise. Didn’t see that coming. Oh well. Minor inconvenience,” he says with a shrug.
My jaw drops.
A minor inconvenience. Minor?
I shake my head in disbelief. Sometimes I forget just how insane they actually are.
Before I can ask what exactly they mean by “minor inconvenience,” a distant explosion rips through the manor, shaking the walls. Dust and debris rain from the ceiling.
“What the hell was that?” I half shriek. Not a full shriek—just half.
“It’s about damn time,” Beckett mutters, rolling his shoulders like he’s readying for a fight.
The cellar door creaks open, and a moment later, a figure steps out of the shadows—a man dressed head to toe in black, his face obscured by a sleek mask. He moves silently, almost unnaturally so, his presence more shadow than man.
Without a word, he kneels in front of Beckett’s lock, shoving a device into it.
A click.
The chain falls away.
As he passes the device to Beckett, he murmurs, “We’re square.”
Beckett’s lips curl into a faint smile. “Don’t hesitate to reach out in the future. Seems like we have similar goals.” The masked man gives a curt nod before slipping into the darkness as silently as he arrived. I don’t even hear his footsteps on the stairs.
Come to think of it, I never heard him come down them either.
Once Beckett frees himself, he quickly moves to unlock the others. Quinn staggers over with the device, and the weight of the chains falls from my wrists. It’s both a physical and emotional relief.
“Well, this is cozy,” he drawls, his smirk intact despite the bruises. “Family reunion in a dungeon. Can’t say I’ve had one of those before.”
I glare at him, equal parts exasperated and grateful. “You really can’t take anything seriously, can you?”
“Not if I can help it.” His grin widens. “Besides, it’s nice knowing I still look this good after a beating. Honestly, I’m not surprised.”
“Quinn,” Whit says, cutting in as he pulls a couple of syringes from a hidden compartment inside his tactical vest.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Just a little something to give us a kick in the pants,” Quinn replies with a grimace—right before Whit sticks the needle into the side of his neck. Not even a few seconds later, he’s hopping around with possibly even more energy than usual.
Beckett pulls me to my feet, his hand steadying as I stumble—then I dive into his arms. “I knew you would come,” I mumble into his chest before moving to Whit, then Quinn, pulling them close, wrapping myself in their warmth.
“We’ll have a proper reunion once we get the fuck out of here—no time now,” Beckett says firmly, his gaze flicking toward the stairs. “We have to move.” Before the last word leaves his lips, the unmistakable sound of boots thundering above us grows louder with each passing moment.
The moment we start up the stairs, the door swings open. There’s a brief moment where no one moves—just before chaos explodes.
They say fighting an uphill battle is difficult, but I think fighting your way up a narrow staircase is worse. I’m just thankful no guns are fired.
Whit is the first to meet them, his broad shoulders slamming into the nearest mercenary. The impact sends the man flying back into two others, their bodies tangling as they stumble. Whit doesn’t hesitate, using his momentum to drive a punch into the gut of the next man, then throwing him down the stairs with a grunt.
Behind him, Beckett’s movements are lethal and precise. He ducks under a wild swing from one mercenary, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it sharply until the knife drops into his own hand. With a swift, brutal motion, Beckett drives the hilt of the knife into the man’s temple, dropping him instantly.
Quinn follows close behind, his usual grin plastered across his face as he slips past Beckett to take on two mercenaries at once. He moves like liquid—his body twisting and turning with an agility that’s almost impossible to track. One man swings a baton at him, but Quinn ducks, grabs the weapon mid-swing, and yanks it free. With a flourish, he spins it in his hand and cracks it across the man’s jaw. “Thanks for donating to the QFA and helping a Quinn in need,” he quips, twirling the baton in his hand before planting a solid kick into another mercenary’s chest.
“What’s the QFA?” I wonder aloud.
Whit groans before answering. “Quinn’s Funtime Association. He made that one up a few years ago, and no matter how dumb we tell him it is, he keeps using it.”
“At this point, it’s out of spite,” Quinn says with a maniacal laugh, bringing his new toy down on another man’s temple.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to his ridiculousness.
I follow behind them cautiously, knowing my strength is only half there.
One of the mercenaries lunges at me, his face twisted in determination as he tries to grab me around the waist, but I sidestep the attack and drive my knee into his stomach. He doubles over, and I bring my elbow down hard on the back of his neck, sending him sprawling and tumbling down the rest of the steps.
My breath comes fast and sharp, triggering a fit of coughs, but the adrenaline keeps me steady.
“You don’t sound so good, princess,” Whit says, worry clear in his voice.
“Well, I guess you better hurry up and get me out of here so y’all can nurse me back to health.” I laugh, which only makes me cough again.
Beckett’s gaze cuts to me for a second, assessing me with a furrow between his brows.
“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn says, taking a moment to salute me.
It’s amazing how he can still joke and carry on with his usual antics, even though he was beaten half to death less than a day ago.
Another guard moves to block my path, raising a baton to strike, and I don’t think—I just react. I grab his wrist, twisting it as hard as I can, the baton clattering to the ground. He shouts in pain, but before he can recover, I bring my foot down hard on his knee. The sickening crunch echoes in the confined space, and he crumples, howling in agony.
Quinn glances back at me, his eyes wide with surprise and approval. “That’s my girl!” he calls out, before ducking under another attack and slamming his fist into the side of his opponent’s head.
The narrow staircase is both a hindrance and an advantage. The tight space forces bodies to collide, punches and kicks landing in rapid succession. A knife slices across Whit’s shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice it, grabbing the offending mercenary by the collar and slamming him into the wall with enough force to crack the plaster.
“Duck,” Whit roars, using the momentum of the man’s fall to toss him over his back and down the stairs—right over where we’re crouched.
Beckett uses the close quarters to his advantage, trapping one man against the wall and driving his knee into his ribs before shoving him into the steps of the guards coming down the stairs, tripping them. They tumble on top of each other, effectively blocking the remaining mercenaries as they struggle to get up.
One manages to break through the mess of limbs and charges toward me, his knife gleaming in the dim light. My heart pounds, and time seems to slow as I raise my fists, preparing to defend myself—even though I know I won’t win.
Before he’s close enough to reach me, Whit grabs the man by his jacket, yanking him away from me. “Stay away from her,” he growls, before delivering a brutal kick to his back, sending the man tumbling down the stairs, landing with his neck at an odd angle.
We fight our way up, step by grueling step. I’m almost certain the staircase has doubled in length. My arms ache, my legs burn, but I refuse to stop, even as my vision goes in and out of focus and coughs continue to wrack my body.
One mercenary lunges at Beckett, but I shove him off balance with my shoulder, giving Beckett the opening to knock him out with a single strike.
Quinn spins around, grinning, once again bleeding from his mouth. “You’re stealing my kills, sweetheart.”
“Stop counting and keep moving!” I shout back, panting.
Whit glances over his shoulder, his face set in grim determination. “Stay close, Celest. Don’t let them separate you from us.”
By the time we reach the top of the stairs, the number of mercenaries has dwindled significantly. The last couple seem desperate, their movements sloppy as they throw themselves at us. Whit grabs one by the collar and hurls him down the stairs, while Beckett drives his boot into another’s chest, sending him crashing into the wall.
Quinn pauses just long enough to look back at the carnage, his grin widening at the sheer volume of bodies piled at the bottom of the stairs. “Nice warm-up,” he says, breathing heavily.
Then he glances at Beckett and Whit, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “What’s the bet this time? Highest kill count?”
Whit snorts, shaking his head. “Nah, I’d like to just get the fuck out of here as soon as possible.”
“Suit yourselves,” Quinn says with a shrug, turning to me. “What about you, Celest? You in?”
I roll my eyes, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the chaos. “Just keep moving, Quinn.”
He winks at me, whistling as we press on, ready for whatever comes next.
“Is that… Sk8r Boi?” Whit asks incredulously.
Quinn stops whistling long enough to say, “Maaaybe.”
Beckett sighs as Quinn continues to whistle. I don’t know the song, but it seems catchy. I wonder what’s so exasperating about it.
“Quinn,” Beckett says, “shut up.”
I look at the three of them and smile. I almost lost this. I almost lost them.
My boys.