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“I’m gonna fucking kill ‘em,” he seethes when she’s gone.
“Damage control now, plot murder and mayhem later.”
The two of us sweep through the rest of the first floor, finding more damage but no messages. When we head upstairs, we sweep one room at a time, saving the master bedroom for last. By the time we reach it, Jez is running up the steps.
“Lair is safe, thank fuck,” she says.
“That’s good because so far, every other room in the place is destroyed,” Demon grits.
“Soul is gonna have a field day with this,” she mutters.
Facing her, I cup her cheeks. “No, he won’t. We won’t let him.”
Rolling her eyes, she blows out a breath. “Yeah, okay.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Demon says, nodding at the bedroom door. “I swear on all that’s unholy, if they ruined the bed, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
Jez and I chuckle, and Demon’s faint smirk tells me that his comment got his intended reaction: a little lighter mood.
Just like when we opened the front door, when we step into the bedroom, we freeze. The space is pristine with not even the slightest hint of damage. But in the middle of the neatly made bed—the same one wedidn’tmake before we left for the clubhouse days ago—are three black envelopes and a black box.
“Well, this can’t be good,” I say, breaking away from them to get the ominous envelopes.
There’s one addressed to each of us in bold, blood red handwriting, and I give them theirs. Demon is the first to open his.
Mark Grandon,
Everything you’ve spent your life hating, you’ve now become. Your trauma, as you so misguidedly call it, prepared you for the life you lead as part of a throuple. Instead of hunting me down, you should be thanking me. Think about that before you continue on your mission to take me out.
Always your first,
S.C.
Demon’s face pales as he reads the letter out loud, and his hands shake when he looks in the envelope to find a picture.
“What is it?” Jez demands.
“It’s, um…” He swallows, his expression tortured.
Rather than continue, he flips the image around so we can see it. My blood boils at what is clearly a still from a video of Demon bent over a table that a girl is strapped to, and two grown men doing their worst to destroy them both.
“Omigod,” Jez says on an exhale. “They recorded it?”
Demon sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the picture. “I… Fuck! Will I ever be free of this?”
“You will,” I tell him. “I promise you that.”
“Me, too,” Jez adds, and we sit on either side of him. “Uh, Phantom, you read yours next. I don’t think I can stomach what might be in mine.”
I arch a brow, wondering what could possibly be worse than what we’ve already seen, but I don’t argue. Tearing open the envelope, I pull out a letter.
Preston Graham,
You think you can put an end to this, to me and my friends? Think again, hacker. We will bury you long before you have a chance to bury us. Back off on your pursuit to find me, leave Betts alone, and crawl back into your dungeon before it’s too late.
Secretly a fan of your work,
S.C.