Page 27 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

As if responding to my question, a notification pings on Alex's screen. A new message in the auction interface.

Congratulations on your acquisition. Your purchase will be available for collection in 48 hours. Detailed instructions will be provided 12 hours prior to pick up time. Thank you for your patronage.

“Two days.” Oscar’s thumb resuming its soothing circles on my palm. “That gives us time to prepare.”

Z finally releases my shoulder, resuming his agitated pacing. “Or time for them to realize they've been compromised and change the location.”

“They won't,” Alex says, his voice hardening with renewed determination as he swivels in his chair. “The virus deployed exactly as designed. It was their security system that was better than anticipated. They have no way of knowing we attempted to access their systems.”

“So we wait for the pickup instructions and follow the trail physically.”

Alex nods. “We track the sample, find the facility, locate Luca.”

I want to believe them. Need to believe them, but the crushing fear of another setback presses down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“I can't wait two more days. He's been captive for years. Every minute..."

Oscar pulls me against his chest, his arms encircling me in a protective embrace. “We're closer than we've ever been, solnishko. Two days and we'll have a direct line to their operation.”

“What if they change the pickup location?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “What if they realize something's wrong? What if?—"

“They won't,” Alex cuts in. “The virus was designed to self-destruct after deployment. As far as they're concerned, the transaction was clean.”

Z stops pacing, turning to face us with determination etched into his features. “We'll be ready. All of us.”

Talon nods, his expression hardens. “We've been planning for this. Surveillance equipment, weapons, vehicles. We're ready to move at a moment's notice.”

“And if they're expecting that?” I can't help the doubt creeping into my voice. “The Collector has stayed hidden for years. He has to be prepared for someone trying to track him.”

“Then we'll be more prepared,” Oscar says, his voice steady and reassuring against my ear.

“What do we do now?” I ask, pulling away from Oscar's embrace to look at each of them in turn.

Alex swivels back to his computer, fingers already typing again. “Now I monitor the network for any unusual activity. Any hint they might have detected us. If they do, we burn this location and head to the next one.”

“We prepare, and Vesper trains."

Z nods in agreement. “If we're going in physically to extract Luca, she needs to be ready.”

“I am ready,” I insist, though the tremble in my voice betrays me.

“You're getting there,” Talon offers. “But if we're potentially walking into The Collector's territory, you need more than basic self-defense.”

“I need some air,” I announce suddenly, pushing past Talon toward the door. The walls of Alex's room feel like they're closing in.

No one tries to stop me as I hurry down the hallway and out onto the apartment’s small balcony. The cool night air hits my face, a stark relief from the suffocating tension inside. I clutch the railing, fingers digging into the metal as I stare out at the city lights blurring through unshed tears.

Two more days of waiting. Two more days of not knowing if Luca is okay. Two more days for something to go wrong.

The sliding door opens behind me, but I don't turn. I know who it is without looking. Oscar's presence is unmistakable.

“I'm fine,” I say before he can speak, the lie bitter on my tongue.

He doesn't respond immediately, just comes to stand beside me, his shoulder barely brushing mine as he leans against the railing. The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but heavy with everything unsaid.

“You don't have to be fine. Not with me.”

Something in his tone breaks the dam I've been desperately trying to hold together. A sob escapes me, raw and painful. Oscar turns me toward him, gathering me against his chest as I finally let go.

“I thought we had him,” I choke out between sobs, my fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. “I thought it was over.”

“I know, solnishko.” His arms tighten around me. “But this isn't a setback. It's progress. We’re closer than we were yesterday.”

I want to believe him. Need to believe him. But the disappointment of watching our digital lifeline disappear has left me hollow.

“What if he's suffering?” The words escape before I can stop them. My greatest fear finally given voice. I know what I endured in that place, but Luca…he may not have been afforded anesthesia like I had been during my procedures. “What if by the time we find him, he's...”

“Don't," Oscar says firmly. “Luca is alive. The sample proves that.”

The certainty in his voice anchors me, even as tears continue to stream down my face. Oscar's thumb gently wipes them away, his touch so tender it makes my heart ache.

“Two days,” I mutter, trying to convince myself. “We can do this.”

“We can,” he agrees. “And we will.”

The sliding door opens again, and Z steps onto the balcony. His expression softening when he sees my tear-streaked face. Without a word, he moves to my other side, his hand settling on the small of my back.

“We got this far,” he says quietly. “We're not stopping now.”

His presence, combined with Oscar's, creates a cocoon of safety I hadn't realized I needed. The night air wraps around us, the distant sounds fade away as my sobs finally slow.

“What do you need, moya koroleva?”

“I need it to be over,” I sob, the words raw and painful as they scrape past my throat. “I need to stop failing him.”

Another sob wracks my body, but this time it transforms into something else—a sound closer to a growl than a cry. My fingers curl into fists at my sides as I pull away from Oscar's embrace.

“We were so close,” I hiss, slamming my palm against the metal railing. The sting shoots up my arm, but I welcome the pain. It's cleaner than the ache in my chest. “So fucking close!”

“We still are close,” Oscar tries, his voice placating.

“Don’t!” I scream, spinning around to face him, my whole-body trembling with emotion that won’t be contained. “Don’t tell me to calm down! I don’t want calm—I want my brother back! I want The Collector’s head on a pike! I want?—”

My voice cracks, the scream tearing out of me before it collapses into silence, strangled by the grief and fury clawing up my throat like barbed wire I can’t choke down.

“You're right,” Z agrees, “Being calm won't help.”

Oscar shoots him a warning look, but Z ignores it, stepping closer to me.

“Come on,” he says, taking my wrist. His grip is firm, but not painful, as he tugs me toward the door. “I have a better idea.”

"Where are we going?" I demand.

“To the gym.”

“The gym?” I stare at him incredulously. “You want me to work out right now?”

“I want you to hit something,” he clarifies. When everything is falling apart and you can't control it, at least you can control how hard your fist connects with something. And right now, you need to hit something before you explode.”

I consider arguing, but there's a certain logic to his suggestion. He’s right.

"Fine.”

Z's grip on my wrist loosens as I follow him willingly toward the door. Oscar trails behind us, his presence a silent support as we make our way down to the basement gym.

The lights flicker to life, revealing the modest space where Talon has been training me.

Z crosses to the punching bag, giving it a testing push before turning to me. “No gloves. No wraps.”

“That's not safe,” Oscar objects from the doorway.

“It's not meant to be,” Z counters. “Sometimes pain clarifies.”

I step forward without hesitation, the rational part of my brain acknowledging that this is reckless, but the storm inside me doesn't care.

My knuckles are already tingling in anticipation.

Z positions himself behind the bag, bracing it with his body.

“Hit it like you mean it. Like it's The Collector.”

The name ignites something in me. I pull back my arm and drive my fist into the leather surface with a force that is laced with rage. Pain blossoms across my knuckles, sharp and immediate, but Z is right, it’s cleansing.

"Again," Z commands.

I strike the bag again and again, each hit harder than the last. The pain in my knuckles becomes a dull throb, then a sharp sting, morphing into something beyond pain—a fever beneath my skin that refuses to break.

“That's it,” Z encourages, his voice rough with approval. “Let it out.”

My fists connect in a rhythm that grows more frantic with each impact.

Left, right, left, left, right. I pour everything into each punch—my fear for Luca, my rage at The Collector, my frustration at another dead end, my guilt for not finding him sooner.

Blood smears across the leather, but I barely notice.

“He took everything from me," I snarl between blows. “My brother—” Punch. “My son—” Punch. “My choice—” Punch.

Oscar says something from behind me, concern lacing his voice, but Z silences him with a look. He understands that what I need right now isn't gentleness.

The world narrows to the sound of my fists hitting leather, the burn in my muscles, the copper taste of tears and sweat on my lips. I lose track of time, of how many blows I've landed. My vision blurs, not from tears now but from pure exhaustion.

With one final devastating punch, I throw everything I have left into the bag.

My legs give out beneath me, and I collapse forward, suddenly boneless.

Strong arms wrap around me, lowering me gently to the mat.

I'm vaguely aware of Z's voice as he cradles me against his chest. A dull, persistent throb pulses through my fists, the skin across my knuckles split and bleeding.

"That's enough," Oscar says, kneeling beside us. His fingers gently take my wrists, turning my hands palm-up to examine the damage. His expression is tight with concern, but not reproachful. "You need ice."

I should feel something, pain, exhaustion, maybe even regret. There's only a strange, hollow calm. The storm that was raging inside me has burned itself out, leaving behind an eerie stillness that feels almost like peace.