Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
No beauty mark. It’s not there.
My pulse accelerates.
Where is it?
I keep searching while holding my expression like an unspooled madman seeing a naked woman for the first time.
No beauty mark. No beauty mark. No fucking beauty mark.
I step away from Crowe, pretending boredom while drifting closer to the screen a half step at a time.
“She’s a hot piece.” With crazy eyes, I smile through the roar in my chest. “Twenty years too old for you, Crowe.”
“Like I said.” He grits his teeth. “She’s motivation for him.”
“Doesn’t seem to be working.”
Every muscle in my body vibrates to tear, crush, and castrate House of Crowe. Instead, I lean in to give the lens a better look. Just enough to feed the van the angle they need.
I search again.
No beauty mark.
I fake a yawn, lifting my hand to cover my mouth, and whisper into the mic, “Not her.”
“Stand by,” Mikhail says. “I am analyzing.”
I drop my hand, keep my posture loose, my face neutral.
If that isn’t Dove on the screen, where is she? Still in this building? Moved somewhere else? Another country?
Dead?
No.
I shove down that last thought hard and keep my smile crooked and wrong, playing the part while my brain scrabbles for footing. I need minutes. Seconds even. I need Mikhail to rip that feed apart and tell me where she is.
The guards shift, boots adjusting, weight redistributing, and fingers edging closer to triggers.
“Take him.” Crowe’s patience thins. “Grab the hacker and go.”
“Settle down before you start molting.” I wave a hand at Jag. “I’m evaluating the merchandise. If you broke his mind, that’s just sloppy.” I make a tutting sound. “He might not be worth the trouble of hauling him out of here.”
I circle Jag like a compromised circus clown wired for disaster and savoring the moment.
Because I’m not leaving without her.
Until I know where she is, nobody in this room is going anywhere.
“He’s a well-built man. Sexy if you’re into muscles. I mean, who’s not? And look at that. Legal age of consent.” I give Crowe a pointed look and return to Jag, twirling my skirt. “Nice collarbones. I just love collarbones. My last pet had the sexiest little beauty mark right here.”
I tap Jag’s chest, precisely where Dove’s mole is, knowing Mikhail is watching through the lens.
Jag’s desolate gaze latches onto mine, and a flare of understanding flashes in the bloodshot depths. I step out of the way and watch him refocus on the screen, his eyes examining, probing, looking for a beauty mark that’s not there.
Ducking under the chains stretched high on the wall, I move in close behind him.
The shackles rattle as his hands shift against my legs. I pause at his back and bend, draping my arms over his shoulders as if I belong there, just another cruelty he has to endure.
“Tell me.” I nuzzle his ear, my voice lazy and theatrical. “Did they break you, kitten?”
For a heartbeat, there’s nothing.
Then Jag breathes out a laugh as rough as sandpaper scraping bone. “Fuck you.”
Hell’s choir, I could weep. He’s still in there.
I press my inked smile against his neck and direct my eyes to the video. “Found your blue princess.”
He goes rigid, instantly understanding my meaning.
His computer lair.
Crowe studies our intimate position. To him, it sounds like I’m referencing the woman on the screen. Ownership. Leverage. All the ugly things he comprehends.
Mikhail’s voice pipes into my ear. “I magnified the images. Ran comparisons. No beauty moles. And there are other discrepancies. Height, shoulder span, micro-ratios… The dimensions of the woman’s body on the screen do not match the footage we have of Dove Rath.”
My lungs unlock, and my head spins.
“The video is not real, Wolf,” Mikhail confirms. “It is AI-generated. Deep fake. That is not Dove Rath.”
My heart stops, restarts, and flies off the handle.
Fuck. Me. Gently. With a miracle. Relief slams into me so hard it almost drops me to my knees.
To conceal my surging, pounding shock, I bury my face in Jag’s neck and breathe in his proof of life, inhaling the scents of blood, sweat, iron, and him.
For the room, I cackle like an anti-vaxxer in a tinfoil hat, bred for bad endings.
For Jag, I discreetly trace my thumb along his shackled wrist. His fingers curl, reaching, and I give them a quick caress.
He’s mine, and I’m getting him the fuck out of here.
Slowly, shamelessly, I ease back, running my lips along his ear, my smile tipped to look like a cracked-open creeper.
I let my hair fall forward to curtain my face and hide the movement of my mouth as I whisper, “Deep fake. Not her.”
Jag’s breath catches.
I straighten, hands sliding off his shoulders, the smile holding as I turn away.
“I’ll take him.” I snap my fingers at the nearest guard. “Remove his shackles.
“She is not there,” Mikhail says. “I hacked every camera, searched every room in the building. Get out of there.”