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"And if I refuse?"

Hammond sighs, like I'm a child asking stupid questions. "Then you'll never see her again. And neither will your little pack of Alpha dogs."

The thought of Dahlia in Hammond's hands makes my vision blur with rage. I take a step forward before I can stop myself.

"I wouldn't." Hammond gestures toward the door, where his men wait. "I have snipers positioned outside this building. One word from me, and you'll never make it to the elevator."

"You won't get away with this."

"I already have." He moves toward the door. "You have until midnight tomorrow to decide. I'll text you the location."

"How do I know she's still alive?"

Hammond pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "You don't. That's what faith is for, isn't it?"

"I want proof. Make a video call or something."

He considers this for a moment. "Fine. Once you have decided to work with me, I'll arrange a brief call. Just to ease your mind."

"What exactly do you want?"

"I have to know you will do it first, Evan. I can't give out my trump card just yet." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "It's your choice. You can either get her back in one piece or…"

"You're a fucking psychopath."

"Sticks and stones." Hammond opens the door. "Remember, midnight tomorrow. And if you alert the authorities, she dies. Immediately and painfully. Or after I have my men fill her with their semen. That would be a sight."

"You fucking bastard. Don’t you dare touch her!"

He waves me away like I am a fly as he steps out. His men fall into formation behind him. Just before the door closes, he looks back at me.

"Oh, and Evan? Don't try to be clever. You were never very good at it."

He gives me that cold, satisfied smile.

"And remember," he says, "if you tell anyone... by the time you finish the sentence, Dahlia will already be dead."

Chapter 22 - Dahlia

Cold. That's the first thing I notice as my consciousness creeps back. My head is pounding like someone's taken a jackhammer to my skull. The light above me burns too bright, making me squint as I try to figure out where I am.

I'm in a laboratory. It's not mine. The equipment is military-grade, sleek, and expensive. The walls are bare concrete, and there are no windows.

I try to move, and panic spikes through me when I realize I can't. The metal restraints bind my wrists and ankles to a chair bolted to the floor. I pull against them, and I feel the bite of cold steel against my skin.

"Fuck," I mutter, twisting my hands to test the strength of the cuffs. They don't budge.

My head throbs, and my mouth tastes like cotton. Whatever they drugged me with has left me disoriented and nauseous. I try to piece together what happened. The concert with Axl. His penthouse. The drive back. The vans. The men.

"Axl," I whisper, my heart clenching. Is he alive? Did they hurt him?

The sound of a door opening makes me snap my head up. Heavy footsteps approach, and I see General Hammond. I've only seen him on TV before, but his face is unmistakable. He's tall, with close-cropped silver hair and cold eyes that remind me of a shark.

"Dr. Baldwin," he says. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

I jerk against my restraints again, harder this time.

"I wouldn't waste your energy," Hammond says, circling my chair slowly. "Those restraints are designed to hold shifters three times your size. You'll only hurt yourself."