Page 273 of Blackwood

After the funeral, Knox went into Zeke and Bella’s penthouse. Opened some hidden server buried in a false wall behind the bookshelf, some serious Mission Impossible shit. Racks of black towers, blinking lights, heavy-duty cooling fans that never stop humming. The thing looked like it could launch a goddamn satellite.

They were locked out. Access fucking denied. Not even Knox could crack it, and that bastard can get into the Pentagon if you give him five minutes and a shitty Wi-Fi signal. Bella sat there for hours, trying every password she could remember. Birthday combos. Inside jokes. Stupid shit only she and Zeke would’ve known.

Nothing worked.

And then she remembered something that Zeke had told her in that hell house they used to call a home. When they were still kids, still surviving he’d told her and Dylan they’d escape oneday. Zeke took an old map out of a drawer in the kitchen, laid it out, and told Bella to close her eyes and point.

She did.

Costa Rica. That’s where her finger landed. That was his promise. Costa Rica would be where he’d take them and start a new life.

And that motherfucker? He made the passwordCosta Rica.Like some twisted breadcrumb trail, left just for her. The second she typed it in, the server unlocked. Every door flew open. And buried deep in the data, there it fucking was. The damn timestamp. The exact moment the password was changed lined up with the same day she got her first message from Luca.

So either Zeke’s been in that penthouse or he hacked it remotely from wherever he and “Luca” are hiding.

There’s no denying it anymore. Zeke isn’t dead. He’s alive. And he’s playing the game. Hell, he’s the mastermind behind the whole game. Bella refuses to believe it. Says maybe he’s being forced, that her brother would never hurt her.

I wish I could believe that. I really do. But I’m not blinded by that sibling-bond bullshit. There is no Luca. There’s only Zeke. And this is some sick and twisted brother-sister love-hate betrayal dressed up as a creepy Edgar Allan Poe poetry shit.

Looking back at the messages, it all makes sense now. The way “Luca” knew things about her no one else could possibly know. No one but him.

So when I find Zeke, when I catch him, I will kill him for everything he’s put her through. But I’m not saying that to my girl. I won’t be the one to rip her progress to shreds. Not when she’s finally starting to come back. Not when we’ve finally gotten a piece of her light again.

Especially since that fucker hasn’t made a move or said a single word since his creepy poem at the masquerade.

“Baby,” I say again, softer this time.

She doesn’t hear me. Or maybe she does and just can’t stop. Her hands are shaking. Her skin is red and raw, and yet she keeps scrubbing like the water’s not hot enough to burn it all away. I step into the shower. Fully clothed. Doesn’t fucking matter.

I crouch in front of her and take her wrists gently. She jerks back at first, eyes wild like she doesn’t recognize me. Like she’s still trapped in whatever nightmare ripped her out of our bed. But then her gaze clears and the moment she realizes it’s me, her whole body trembles.

“Look at me,” I say, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the static in her head. “Your hands, they’re clean. You’re clean. It’s not real. You hear me? It was just a bad dream. You’re safe, baby. I’m right here.”

Her eyes finally meet mine. Wide and bloodshot. But something alters behind them, like a thread snapping back into place. Her breath shudders and a sob punches its way out of her throat. She crumbles forward into me.

I catch her. My arms lock tight around her shaking body. I hold her to my chest like I’m trying to fuse us together.

“I’ve got you, baby,” I whisper into her soaked hair. “You’re alright. You’re home.”

She doesn’t run. Doesn’t flinch. She pulls into me.Her hands fist the back of my drenched shirt.

And that? Fuck, that’s new. Usually when we try to pull her back from the edge, she fights us. She turns to ice or fire, shoves us away, shuts down, and disappears behind those walls she’s built to survive.

But not this time. This time, she chooses me. She lets me hold the weight with her. Lets me carry it. And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, she lets herself rest. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel her heartbeat press against mine.

I scoop her up, skin flushed from the heat, hair dripping down her spine. She curls into me on instinct. I grab a towel from the rack, set her down and wrap it around her slow and gentle. I guide her out, one hand steady on her back, the other gripping her hand tight.

The apartment’s still dark. The only light spilling from the kitchen where Cade’s already there, leaning against the counter. A mug waiting with steam curling into the air. His eyes find us, find her, and everything in him softens.

I’m soaked. She’s soaked. We’re both dripping across the hardwood, leaving a mess I don’t give a single shit about, because she’s still holding my hand. And that’s all that matters right now.

“Hey sweetheart,” Cade says softly, stepping forward. “Chamomile. Extra honey.”

She pauses, just for a second, then takes the mug. Her fingers wrapping around the warmth like it might keep her from falling apart again.

“Thanks,” she whispers. “And… I’m sorry.”

She sinks down onto the barstool, eyes locked on the steam. Cade and I both freeze.