Page 5

He holds my elbow as I find it, stepping carefully down into the room.

Behind us, Pace closes the door. “I don’t like her down here,” he says, not for the first time.

It is, however, the first time Lex turns to match Pace’s grim tone. “Neither do I.” His gaze meets mine, the line of his mouth so grave that it brings me up short. “You don’t need to be here. You don’t need to see what we’ve…”

But his words clip off, and a gnawing doubt grows in my belly at the look in his eyes. There’s unease in the way he cuts his gaze. Perhaps shame.

“You’ve hurt him,” I guess.

Lex meets my stare. “Yes.”

“Badly?”

Pace raises his chin, a glint of defiance in his dark eyes. “Sometimes.”

I look between them, deciding, “Good.”

Lex parts his lips to argue, but Wicker steps between us, reaching for a switch. “Give it a fucking rest. This isn’t some East End debutante we’re dealing with here. She’s West End. She can handle a little blood.” There’s a click, and then the room beyond a grimy glass window explodes with light. “Can’t you, Red?”

My answer—yes, of course—gets stuck in the back of my throat at the sight before me. I breathe sharply and force myself not to look away, because Wicker is right. I can handle blood. I can stomach the sight of Ashby’s mangled hand, two fingersmissing. I can absolutely deal with the fact he’s mostly naked, strapped to a metal table, torso slashed with whip marks.

This isn’t the senseless violence of West End, I remind myself. It’s not the Dukes having an ugly spar with another frat in the ring. It’s not a bullet hole or a stab wound made for the purpose ofwinning.

This isn’t victory.

It’s justice.

The thought makes it easier to take the five steps to the window, peering through the dirty glass to get a better look at him. Rufus Ashby, no longer in his pristine white suit. The King of East End, completely absent of his poise and dignity. My father, little more than a sack of meat and bones.

I tilt my head, considering. “He looks…”

“Like a murderous piece of shit?” Pace asks.

“Well, yes but…” I try to find the words, assessing the changes as Lex watches me warily. Ashby’s skin is pale—even worse than mine. And there are dark, sunken circles under his eyes. There’s blood, certainly, and he looks smaller than I remember, but that’s not quite the issue. I frown, finally putting my finger on it. “Old,” I decide. “He looks old.” His hair looks more gray than blonde in this light, as does the raggedy beard that’s growing in.

“I’m not surprised.” Pace’s fingers flutter soothingly through my hair, the motion mindless, automatic. These last two weeks have built a few constants, one being Pace’s distracted fixation with brushing his fingers through my hair. “Every day down here feels like an eternity. You know that, Rosi.”

Swallowing, I ask the question there’s no good answer to. “Will he… die?” A quick death wouldn’t be just. To let him live, even less so.

“No,” Lex answers instantly, snagging a clipboard from the hook beside the window. “His vitals have been steady, if notstrong. None of his wounds are life-threatening. A couple signs of infection, but we’re dealing with it.” The tone is cold and curt. The contrast between Lex’s clinical manner in my exam room versus Ashby’s couldn’t be more stark. “He won’t die.”

Darkly, Wicker adds, “Not yet.”

“But he’s in pain,” I wonder, glancing at Pace beside me.

“Pain?” Pace’s knuckle brushes the edge of my jaw, his lips curving into a slow, sinister smirk. “Fuckloads of pain.”

Excellent. “I want to talk to him,” I decide, moving toward the door.

To my surprise, it’s Wicker who blocks the way, his blue eyes wide. “What? You can’t go in there.”

I bristle. “Why not?”

“Interrogation isn’t all hack and slash,” he insists. “It’s easy to get in a man’s skin, but getting into his mind? That takes time. Manipulation, incentive, reinforcement.” Wicker’s eyes dart down to my belly, a shadow crossing his features. “If you walk in there, you’re going to give him something he wants. Something,” he stresses, “he hasn’t earned.”

I straighten my spine, annoyed. “What about what I’ve earned? I’ve earned the right to ask my own questions! We put him in there together. We’re supposed to be a team.”

But Wicker just scoffs. “Why do you think I let you down here?” His hand flies out, punching a button on the wall. “Wake up, fucknuts. We’ve got your daughter down here.”