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And Kanyan?
Kanyan just nods. Once. Nothing dramatic. Just a small, precise dip of his chin, like a surgeon finishing a cut. Then he stands—fluid, composed, not a hair out of place—like he didn’t just peel back a man’s mind with nothing but a stare.
I can’t look away. I’ve seen seasoned interrogators threaten, scream, break kneecaps just to get half of what Zack just handed over on a silver platter. But Kanyan didn’t even raise his voice. He didn’t have to. It was the absence of threat that made him terrifying. The unbearable weight of quiet expectation.
And me? I’m standing there like a goddamn rookie. Half in awe. Half shaken. Because I’ve spent my life hunting monsters. Filing reports. Building cases. Thinking justice was something you could wear like a badge.
But this man? Kanyan De Scarzi is justice—cold, wordless, and utterly indifferent to the rules I once lived by.
And as he steps away from Zack’s broken frame, not even sparing him a second glance, one truth settles into my bones like stone: God help anyone who stands between us and Maxine now. Because we’re not coming. We’re descending.
42
MAXINE
Time’s a cruel bastard in a place like this—it stretches and bends until it breaks you in half. Until silence becomes a predator. It doesn’t just hang in the air—itclampsdown on me, thick and sour, pressing against my ribs like it wants to crush the breath from my lungs. It reeks of my own fear; I cantasteit—metallic and bitter.
I told myself I wouldn’t panic. That I’d stay calm. Think smart. Wait for a way out. But that lie is unraveling fast. Each second that ticks by with my wrists taped to this goddamn chair, each breath that drags across raw, burning lungs—it chips away at whatever control I thought I had. My heart pounds a frantic beat, like it’s trying to outrun the truth.
And the truth is this: I’m not waking up from this nightmare. This isn’t a bad dream I can blink away or some problem I can solve with charm or logic. This isreal. It’s a reality that leaves bruises and breaks people.
My skin is raw—screaming from where the tape has chewed into my wrists and ankles. I’ve twisted, yanked, fought until I’ve gone numb from the cold. Not from the basement draft, butfrom the creeping, bone-deep awareness that I might not get out of this.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel brave.
I was doing better. Finally. I’d found my rhythm. Started laughing again, sometimes. I was piecing myself back together with trembling fingers, one fragile fragment at a time.
And then fate showed up with a fucking sledgehammer.
I should’ve known better. Should’ve known the past doesn’t stay buried, especially not when the monsters remember your scent.
My head drops back against the chair, eyes scanning the darkness above, trying to find something solid to hold onto. Something that isn’t fear or fury or the way my ribs ache with every shallow breath.
Instead, I find Saxon.
Not really him—just the phantom version I carry behind my eyelids. The version that used to offer safety in silence, protection in chaos. The version that I was just discovering. I shouldn’t think of him now. Not when the world’s about to remind me exactly what kind of currency a woman like me is worth. But he’s there anyway. The memory of his voice. The weight of his stare. The way he always looked like he wanted to destroy everything that ever hurt me. Maybe that’s what hurts the most. That just when I started to believe I could be more than a statistic… I’m back here. Taped to a chair in a place that smells like a bad ending.
And still—still—I think of him. He’s all I can think about. I think of the storm that might be coming. I wonder ifhe’scoming. But that hope? It’s a dangerous thing. It’s a blade that cuts deeper than whatever they plan to do to me.
The door at the top of the stairs yawns open with a sharp, sudden clang that echoes in the dark. I hold my breath as my body goes still.
I hear them before I see them— multiple loud voices that filter down the stairs, reaching my ears. Their footsteps march down the stairs, steady and slow, like a warning. Like a countdown I don’t want to reach the end of.
The chair beneath me groans as I shift to get a better look. My hands are numb, but I can still feel the sting where the tape cuts into my wrists. Every heartbeat slams against my throat like it’s trying to escape. It’s too loud; too fast.
The air feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on my chest, but worse than that is the overpowering scent of masculine cologne—strong and suffocating. It sticks to the air, to my skin, and curls in my nose until I feel like I’m going to throw up. It smells like power and hunger, and it’s everywhere.
They move toward me like kings—untouchable, merciless, forged in violence. There are five of them. Each step they take echoes like a death knell, heavy boots eating up the distance between us. My heart stutters, skips, then slams back into rhythm with a force that rattles my ribs. Dread coils through me, slow and suffocating, like a serpent tightening around my spine.
They don’t speak. Their presence alone screams power—it doesn’t beg or threaten. It takes, claims, then crushes. And I’m caught in their sights, the ground shifting beneath me as they close in like a storm dressed in tailored suits and violence.
My captor steps forward, arms spread like he’s unveiling a new sports car instead of a living, breathing woman chained to a chair.
“Gentlemen,” he croons. “I give you the girl you all missed out on first time around—the prize that slipped through your fingers when Altin Kadri got greedy and kept this one for himself.”
My stomach lurches. That name. It slices through me like a jagged knife. My captor knows it. He wants me to react. I force myself to go still.
They approach one by one—deliberate, silent, like predators sizing up prey already caught in the trap. Their eyes cut through me like knives. Sharp, glittering with hunger—there’s a devouring in their gaze. A promise of what comes next. And though I try not to flinch, not to shrink, I feel my insides coil tighter with every step they take.