Page 113 of Dual

I laugh at that, the sound sharp and bitter. “Ah, Christ. You really don’t know her at all, do ya?”

Bane’s head jerks toward me. “What?”

I take a slow sip of my drink, never breaking eye contact. This is familiar territory. Shoving my guilt down until I feel nothing at all. Being the asshole. “You’re standing here, tearing the goddamn club apart, looking for her like she’s missing.” I let out a breath, shaking my head. “You married my sister, and you still don’t get it.”

He doesn’t respond, but I can see the realization blooming in his eyes. The slow, creeping understanding.

“She does this,” I continue, relishing the chance to direct my anger at someone other than myself. “She runs. She gets restless and goes off on these wild benders, screwing whoever she wants, drinking herself into oblivion. Then she comes back like nothing happened.”

He flinches, and I feel a dark satisfaction.

“Look, man... I get that this is new for you, but Moira’s always been—” Quinn hesitates. “Unpredictable.”

“She’s my wife,” Bane grinds out, as if the word alone could bend reality to his will.

Quinn winces. “Yeah, well. That was a choice, wasn’t it?”

The unspokenYou should’ve known betterhangs between us.

I lean forward, unable to resist twisting the knife. “Tell me, Father. Did ya think you’d be the one to change her?”

He exhales slowly, jaw locked. “I was never looking to change her.”

I scoff, the sound ugly even to my own ears. “Then what the hell are you doing here? Why are you acting like she’s been kidnapped? Face it. She’s off with someone else, same as she always is.”

“She’s not,” he snaps, too fast, too defensive.

I look at him long and hard, seeing myself reflected back at me. The desperation. The denial. The refusal to accept what’s right in front of him.

I shrug, a gesture meant to wound. “Then why aren’t you at home waiting for her?”

The blow lands. I can see it in the way his face shutters, in the way his shoulders drop. In the way he turns and walks out without another word, the club resuming its festivities around him like he was never there.

Like Moira was never there.

Like Anna was never here.

I drain my drink and set it aside, pulling out my phone once more. Still nothing.

But she’ll be back. She has to be.

Because if Mads doesn’t come back, if Anna doesn’t return, then what the hell am I even doing on this fucked ball of doom?

The party carries on around me, laughter and joy that feel like sandpaper against my skin. I stay, going through the motions, pretending everything is fine.

It’s what I do best, after all.

Pretend.

THIRTY-FIVE

MADS

I cometo in total darkness, my head throbbing like someone’s playing a death metal concert inside my skull. My mouth tastes like ass—remnants of the beer I chugged before everything went sideways.

My first coherent thought is:Pavel, you absolute fucking weasel.

I test my restraints, feeling the plastic zip ties biting into my wrists. Classic. They’ve restrained my arms behind my back, and from the cold seeping into my ass and thighs, we’re on a concrete floor. The hood over my head smells like burlap and motor oil—charming. Does that mean our impromptu dungeon is in the back of some repo shop?