Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
He's on his phone, reviewing footage. “Got them leaving the building. Melissa first. Millie about thirty seconds later. Both headed toward the parking lot.” His face hardens. “Van pulled up. Three men. Grabbed Melissa first. Millie ran toward them—looks like she was trying to help. They grabbed her too. Whole thing took less than forty-five seconds.”
“License plate?”
“Covered.”
“Of course it fucking was.” I pace. Someone planned this. Someone who knew exactly when to strike.
“Inside job?” Ripper suggests. “Or using the chance of the wedding with people going in and out to finally hit?”
“Maybe. They've been watching for a while.” The words taste bitter. I turn to Beast, my jaw tight. “We need to lock down the compound. No one in or out until we figure out what's happening.”
“Agreed,” Beast says, silencing the room. “Everyone inside. Now. Prospects, secure all entry points. Bull, check the perimeter. No one leaves without my say-so.”
People scramble.
And I'm left here. Wondering what the fuck I'm going to tell Olive.
Thirty-Seven
Melissa
The cold comes first—not the ache splitting my skull or the copper flooding my mouth. This cold burrows deep, works its way through muscle and marrow until I'm nothing but frozen meat waiting to crack. Or be cracked.
My eyes open. Everything blurs. Doubles. Spins.
Everything snaps into focus through my haze of pain.
Cold metal above. Gray concrete closing in. Black mold creeps along the seams where the walls meet the ceiling, alive with slow decay. The air isn’t just blood—it’s old blood, the kind that’s had time to thicken, to curdle with something fouler beneath it. The kind that means this place has seen screaming.
Where the fuck — Fire lances through my ankles. Not the dull throb of a bruise, but the white-hot bite of teeth sinking into bone, crushing. My breath locks.
I jerk. Nothing moves. My arms stretch overhead, wrists trapped in unyielding metal. Toes scrape concrete—just enough to keep my shoulders from tearing free, not enough to hold my weight.
They’ve hung me.
Like a slab.
Like something waiting to be carved.
Blood drips down my forehead, sliding past my eye. I blink it away, but more comes. A slow, steady trickle from whatever split open my scalp.
How long have I been out?
I force my head up. The movement sends fresh agony cascading through my skull, but I need to see. Need to understand where the fuck I am.
A basement widens out in front. Long. Industrial. A corridor of metal cell doors lining both walls, disappearing into shadow. How many people have died down here?
A sob cuts through the silence.
My head snaps right. Fresh pain. Don't care.
Millie hangs opposite, maybe ten feet away. Same setup. Same metal restraints. Blood crusts under her nose. Her white shirt torn at the shoulder, as if someone had tried to stop her from running.
“Millie.” My voice scrapes out raw. Shredded. Someone took sandpaper to my throat.
She doesn't respond. Just keeps sobbing. Her whole body convulses with each breath.
“Millie.” Louder this time. “Look at me.”
Her head lifts inch by inch. Tears run down her cheeks, mixing with the blood from her nose—red on red, salt and copper. When her eyes finally find mine, something cold slides through my gut. It terrifies me more than the restraints cutting into my wrists, more than this basement that reeks of rot and piss, more than the death hanging thick in the air between us.
Guilt.
Pure, crushing guilt. Of course she’d think this was all her fault.
“I'm so sorry.” The words tumble out between sobs. “I'm so, so sorry, Melissa. This is all my fault. I dragged you into this. I should have—I never should have—”
“Stop.” I try to put force behind the word, but my head's pounding and everything hurts. “Stop apologizing and help me figure out how to get us out of here.”
“We can't.” Her head jerks back and forth, violent and erratic. “We can't get out. There's no way. They're going to—”
“Shut up.” I pull against the restraints binding my wrists. The metal bites into skin—industrial-grade, zero give. Fuck. Think. “We're getting out. I'm not dying in some fucking basement.” Not now. Not after everything.
Olive.
Her face slams into my thoughts. Those green eyes. That gap-toothed smile. The way she threw her arms around Hella's neck and called him Dad without hesitation, without question.
“I'm getting home to my daughter.” I force the words out through gritted teeth. “And you're coming with me. So stop crying and start thinking.”
Millie's sob catches. Hiccups. “How can you—after everything I've done—”
“You didn't do anything.” I shift my weight, trying to ease the pressure on my ankles. The metal cuts deeper until warm blood trickles down into my shoes. “This isn't your fault.”
“It is.” Her voice breaks. “It's all my fault. If I had—if I'd been honest—”
“About what?”
She goes quiet. Her eyes drop.
“Millie.” I hiss through the pounding in my skull. “About what?”
She doesn't answer. On any other day, it would piss me off, but right now we’re about to be carved like a Christmas roast and I’m not real fond of that idea.