Page 32 of At Your Mercy

Ich went on, voice low and grim. “Movements through ports, manifests that don’t match, so many shell companies. Elias’s name doesn’t show up directly in any of it, but his aliases do. Again and again. Every trail I followed led back to him.”

He flipped another sheet forward. Photos—blurry shots of kids and young adults being herded off trucks, faces pale, eyes wide. A few older men and women were scattered in, but it was clear what sold the most.

Youth.

Innocence.

And it was disgusting.

“And here’s the thing.” Ichabod tapped one corner of the photo. “Ro, or should I say Andreas, doesn’t show up anywhere in the manifests. Not once. But we know that he’s still listed as missing, never reappearing after the deaths of his family. So he was a kid, vulnerable, the perfect victim for traffickers. And yet he’s nowhere. Which means if Elias pulled him out of the stream…”

“…he kept him.” The words came out quiet, clipped, like a blade being drawn.

Ichabod’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

Silence thickened in the room, only broken by the faint tick of the radiator.

It wasn’t that big of a surprise, not really. I’d already seen the bruise on Ro’s cheek, and he’d gone as far as to ask me for help—help leaving Elias. But hearing it laid out in paperwork andphotographs—evidence, not just instinct—made my hands curl into fists.

Ichabod studied me carefully. “If this guy’s mixed up in trafficking, he’s dangerous on a whole different level than we thought. Men like that don’t let go of their toys. They break them before they let them go.”

I straightened slowly, smoothing my jacket cuff with deliberate calm. “Look more into the family massacre. I’d bet my life that those motherfuckers were involved.”

Ichabod frowned. “Wes—”

“That’s an order from your boss, not your friend.”

Finally, Ichabod gave a slow, grim nod. “I’ll trace the massacre. Family records, neighbors, maybe the kids or parents had friends they’d mentioned something to. I’ll try to find something that he missed in the cover-up.”

“Do it quietly,” I said.

Ichabod slid the file back toward himself, gathering the papers with careful precision. “And the kid—man?”

I let my gaze drift to my dark computer monitor, where the reflection of my face stared back at me. “The kid,” I murmured, “isn’t going anywhere. Not until I decide what to do with him.”

The corner of Ichabod’s mouth twitched, though it wasn’t amusement. “You sound like you’re keeping him.”

I didn’t bother to correct him.

When Ichabod left, the space around me felt too quiet, and my jaw ached from how hard I’d been grinding my teeth in suppressed fury.

It all explained too much.

And now Elias had tossed his favorite toy in my direction, expecting me to die from the impact.

But he couldn’t have planned on Ro choosing to sit across from me, again and again, threatening violence but pleading on the inside for someone to finallyseehim.

My hand slid over the edge of the desk, rough fingers brushing the smooth wood. The thought was so stark, so quiet in my head, I almost didn’t recognize it as mine.

Ich was right.

I wanted to keep him.

Not in the way Elias had—not chained or collared, hidden away like a stolen jewel. No—I wanted him free. I wanted to be the one he answered to, not because he was forced to, but because he realized on his own that he could choose who holds his leash.

Control wasn’t breaking a boy down until he had nothing left. It was building him up until he saw you as the glue holding him together.

Elias could posture all he wanted, could bury himself in false names and bloody ledgers. But he’d made what would soon be his final mistake by sending Ronan my way.