Page 21 of Always A Villain (Revenge Duet #2)

M y boots thud against the concrete floors of the Iron, each step echoing through the halls. The place is a fucking war zone—Sovereign operatives scrambling, tension thick enough to choke on.

I shove through the Command Center doors, my gaze locking on Arsen. He looks like shit—hours of tracking leads with no fucking break. Isaac pulled every General for this, and with Arsen’s FSB background, he’s been running point.

“Anything?” Already scanning the screens, I drop into the chair beside him.

“Fuck all,” he mutters, rubbing his face, exhaustion bleeding into his voice. “This is a goddamn mess.”

“How many of the positive IDs have missing kids?”

Arsen shoots me a side glance, brow furrowed.

“I believe all of them, sir,” a tech speaks up from across the room. A nervous-looking kid, hunched over his screen, voice tight.

Arsen jerks upright, fists clenching. “What the fuck are you saying?”

The tech hesitates, then clears his throat. “We haven’t confirmed everything yet, but early data shows every positive ID has a missing person report for a child.”

My blood starts to boil. “And no one thought to mention that sooner?”

“The dates…the ages, sir,” the tech stammers, eyes darting to his screen like it might save him. “The missing kids are spread out over years. Nothing seems connected.”

Arsen’s jaw tics. “So, every man we've identified so far is a father of a missing kid?”

“Yes, sir.”

He shoots me a sharp look, then strides away, fists clenched. I follow.

Rory fucking called it.

“Well, fuck me,” Arsen mutters, the weight of the realization sinking in. “That’s one hell of a common thread. How the hell did I miss that?”

I shake my head, teeth grinding. “I didn’t piece it together either.”

Arsen lifts an eyebrow.

“Rory did.”

His smirk is quick. “No shit.”

“This is a fucking human trafficking operation,” I growl.

He shakes his head. “The Sovereign don’t deal in human trafficking.”

“Not the Sovereign,” I snap. “ A Sovereign.”

He goes still .

“Think about it, Arsen. We control ports in Spain and Portugal. Someone with enough pull could use those routes to move kids—ship ’em across the ocean, cut deals with existing networks, and rake in the profits. And no one would look twice at the Sovereign.”

His eyes narrow, skepticism flickering. “That’s a big assumption. You can’t know that for sure.”

I glare at him. “Got a better explanation?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just rubs a hand over his face, frustration burning in his eyes.

“We need to tell Isaac,” he mutters.

“What? No. Not yet. We don’t have anything solid. This is just a hunch. We need more information.”

“It’s not just a hunch. You’re probably right.”

“But we can’t pull Isaac in until we’ve got something concrete,” I bite out. “We have no names. No proof. Just a fucking theory.”

Arsen nods, though reluctantly. “Fine. We’ll tell him when we have something solid. Let’s narrow down where these men crossed paths, dig into the missing kids' reports. ”

“And check the port logs,” I add, mind spinning. “Especially over the last five years. See if anything looks off.”

“Good idea.” Arsen moves toward the computers, already dialing in.

My phone buzzes. I glance down, expecting more intel, but instead, my stomach twists when I see the message.

Rory

I need you. Please.

The Pavilion.

For a second, I stare at the screen blankly. Then it clicks. She’s not texting me—she’s texting him —the masked man. My grip tightens on the phone until the plastic case cracks in my hand.

The urge to destroy something, everything , surges through me. I'm going to kill her. She's fucking asking for the masked man?

“Arsen, I gotta go. Call me if anything changes,” I snarl, shoving my phone deep into my pocket.

I gave her everything. Held her. Fucked her. Cleaned the blood off her skin. Let her fall asleep in my arms.

And now she wants him?

What the fuck is wrong with her?

“Everything alright?”

“I need to handle something.”

I don’t wait for a response. I storm out before I start breaking shit. Steps hard, fast, violent.

She wants the mask? She wants that version of me? Not the man who gave her fucking everything she needs.

My chest tightens, rage tangled up in something uglier. Jealousy. Of my-fucking-self.

“Fuck,” I growl, yanking open the locker. Black jeans. Shirt. Hoodie. Boots. I pull everything on. My fists won’t stop clenching.

And then the mask.

That fucking skull.

I grab it and slam the locker shut so hard it rattles. Let her have what she wants. Let her fucking choke on it.

By the time I’m on my bike, the sun’s already breaking the horizon. I peel out of the Iron, engine roaring loud enough to drown out the noise in my head.

I should’ve cut her loose the second I started needing her. The second she carved her way into my ribcage.

Too late now.

I hit the Pavilion in record time, blowing through traffic like it’s not there. No plan. Just rage.

My fists itching for something— someone —to break.

And if that someone is her, then so fucking be it.

Pulling into the parking lot, the engine snarls as I spot her by the door. She’s hunched over, arms crossed tight, hood pulled low, hiding her face as she stares at the ground.

The bike growls to a halt, tires skidding against the pavement, and when she lifts her head, our eyes lock. I flip up my visor, revealing the skull mask beneath, the one she asked for instead of me.

Her shoulders are shaking under the hoodie, and something about her posture pisses me off even more.

I swing off the bike, stalking toward her.

Anger rolls off me in waves, but as I close the distance, I see it—the bruises.

A raw, angry welt stands out on her cheek, a dark gash splitting her pale skin.

Her eyes are red, swollen, tear-streaked, dried blood caked under her chin.

Someone hit her. Hard.

Grabbing her chin, I force her to look up at me. My thumb brushes the bruises as I turn her face, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.

“Please,” she whispers. “Can we just leave?”

Her voice is wrecked. And she’s trembling—bone-deep. Like her body’s not even sure it’s safe yet.

Then she’s in my arms, clinging to me, sobbing into my chest. My hand fists her hoodie.

Someone did this.

Someone laid their hands on her.

And whoever it was?

They’re already fucking dead.

“Please,” she says again, her voice cracking like glass.

I breathe hard through my nose, jaw locked as I stare past her, already planning how many ways I’m going to end whoever did this.

She nudges me toward the bike.

I nod.

She slumps with relief, her grip loosening as she walks past me.

Why didn’t she call me?

I get on the bike. She’s on me instantly, arms locked around my waist, holding on tight. The engine growls back to life, and her body presses tight against my back. She’s crying, the sound vibrating through me. Each sob drills deeper. She’s broken.

And I wasn’t the one she reached for.

We tear down the street, the wind whipping past. I don’t even know where I’m going.

Just away. But every block, the fury builds.

My hands tighten on the grips. I should be focused on her—on the bruises, the blood—but all I see is the message.

Her texting the skull, not the man beneath it. I’m not enough for her.

Then I spot them.

Two Ducatis in the mirror, far back but gaining. My gut twists. This isn’t a coincidence.

I veer, taking a hard left. She gasps, clutching me tighter. Yeah. They’ve been tailing us. Probably since the Pavilion. I slam the throttle, the engine screaming as we shoot forward, slicing between cars. My pulse pounds, adrenaline mixing with fury.

Of all the fucking times for the Dolore to make their goddamn move.

I take another turn, harder this time, her scream sharp in my ear as the bike fishtails. The Ducatis are still on us, engines snarling. Fuck. They’re not giving up.

I see an opening—tight alley, no way their bikes are getting through. Hitting the brakes, I skid into the turn and slide into the alley. Brick scrapes my elbow as we shoot through.

For a second, it’s quiet.

Then the noise returns. They’re still coming.

We fly out of the alley and into a busy intersection—and that’s when it goes to hell.

A minivan doesn’t see us. I don’t have time to react.

It clips the back tire.

We spin.

She slips.

Her scream rips through me as she’s thrown from the bike.

I hit the pavement hard, the weight of the bike slamming into my leg, crushing it. The world tilts. Metal grinds. Pain flares white-hot. Helmet cracks. My vision goes fuzzy.

But all I see is her—flying, slamming, skidding across asphalt, like a fucking rag doll.

Fuck.

The bike’s pinned tight, the frame jammed so hard against my leg I can’t even shift it. I glance toward her—she isn’t moving.

FUCK!

The high winding of the Ducatis’ engines cuts through the air, closing in fast. The Dolore are coming, and I don’t have enough ammo for a shootout.

I push against the bike, muscles straining, but it won’t budge. Can’t fucking move. I pull, twist—nothing but agony shooting up my leg.

“RORY! RUN!”

Her head stirs, barely, and she looks up at me—eyes dazed, face twisted with pain.

“Axel?” Her voice is hoarse, her lips barely moving, eyes glassy as she pieces it together. “It’s you?”

Goddamnit. We don’t have time for this.

I tear off my helmet, ripping the skull mask from my face in one swift motion, throwing it to the ground. Her teary eyes widen in shock.

“What?” Her voice is fragile, confused.

“You need to run— NOW !”