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"I don't care what he wants," I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. "He has her. That's all that matters."

"At least wait for?—"

"Every second we waste is another second she's with him," I cut him off, pulling free from his grip. "I'm not waiting."

The look Sebastian gives me is resigned but understanding. "I'll have the team follow your coordinates. Five minutes behind you."

I nod once, then push through the exit door into the cool night air. My car is waiting exactly where I left it, sleek and deadly as a weapon.

Which is exactly what it needs to be right now.

I slide behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life. The GPS coordinates from Luna's choker pulse on my phone screen. She's still moving, but slower now. They've reached their destination.

Five minutes away at most. But still, that could be enough time for him to?—

I cut off the thought before it can fully form. I can't afford to think about what might be happening to her right now. I can only focus on what I'm going to do to the man who took her.

The warehouse district appears ahead, abandoned buildings looming like ancient ruins against the night sky. The tracking signal grows stronger as I approach, confirming her location in the largest structure at the far end.

I park a safe distance away, killing the headlights. My security detail will be minutes behind me, but I'm not waiting. Not when she's in there. Not when he has her.

The knife at my hip and the gun holstered against my lowerback provide cold comfort as I approach the warehouse. This isn't about weapons. This isn't about strategy or contingency plans.

This is about blood. About vengeance. About ending, once and for all, the threat that Christopher Finch poses to what's mine.

I enter through a side door, moving silently through shadows as my eyes adjust to the darkness. The warehouse is massive, with rusted metal beams overhead and broken machinery scattered across the concrete floor. The air hangs thick with dust and decay and something metallic that makes my jaw clench.

Blood.

And then I see her.

Her body is suspended—arms stretched painfully above her head, wrists bound and raw from fighting. Her shoulders tremble, but her spine remains straight, refusing to bow even now. That dress, the one that made the entire fucking gallery stop breathing when she walked in, is in shreds.

One strap torn completely away. The entire left side ripped open like a wound. The delicate satin hangs limp and useless, barely covering her body.

There's a bruise blooming on her cheek—sharp, purple, cruel. His handprint. She's marked. She's bleeding.

And around her neck, replacing the elegant choker I'd given her—the one that marked her as mine, as protected—is a burgundy ribbon. Tied too tight, already chafing her delicate skin. A crude, vicious parody of my claim. His way of telling me he's taken what was mine and replaced my mark with his.

And I've never felt closer to becoming the monster they always whisper I am. I pull it from her skin gently, tucking it into my pocket.

Her eyes are open, but there's nothing behind them. Just emptiness. Shutdown. The defense mechanism of a soul that's retreated to safer ground.

Not until I speak her name. "Luna."

Her name cuts through the silence like a blade, slicing through whatever fog has claimed her.

She stirs—barely. A twitch in her shoulders.

And then he steps out from the shadows.

Christopher fucking Finch.

A dead man walking.

Fifty-Two

BECKETT