Page 11 of Finding Denver

They’re both still here. But where?

Fuck. Why do I even care?

Most would think this a job handled. If I walk away now, Wilder’s life is secured. I need Denver Luxe out of the picture, and she is. I could leave right the fuck now.

I wet my lips, glancing from the bathroom to where Lewis strides back into the room, his phone against his ear.

“Leave, Colt,” I whisper to myself. “She’s not your problem.”

No, she’s not. I don’t even need to do anything. My lack of action secures my brother’s life and ends our feud with the Luxes.

But it’s one thing to die. It’s another to let her be taken. Sold. Raped.

I can’t just walk away.

Think, Colt. If you were Dorian and you wanted to punish Denver Luxe, you’d need privacy, at least until you could move her. You’d need a room on a floor where other people weren’t staying.

And Dorian is a rich kid. He flashes his wealth—always has. Rumor has it the reason he met the wrath of Deluxe was because he was at Pulse to try and buy it from her.

If Dorian is anywhere, it’s the penthouse.

The door to the stairwell thuds against the wall as I throw it open and take the steps three at a time. Adrenaline floods my system, and although I know why I’m doing this, the repercussions gnaw at the back of my brain.

I’ve gone from debating killing Denver to saving her.

I heave in breaths as I take each flight of stairs, finally reaching the penthouse floor. My shoulders rise and fall with quickened breaths, and as I stride down the plush hallway, passing bouquets of flowers and expensive art, the power flicks back on.

And I hear Denver scream.

Not a scream of fear. Of rage.

I press my back into the wall beside the penthouse door and rap my knuckles against it before taking out my knife. It was a gift from Wilder, the eight-inch blade well used, some of the serrated edges broken off in bodies over the years, but I’m attached to it. It’s clean right now.

It won’t be for long.

Someone shouts an order, and footsteps move closer. The door opens and I turn, reaching for the collar of the man before me. I yank him close and bury the blade into his throat, warm blood spilling across my knuckles, and keep a firm grip of him as I walk him backward into the room.

I have seconds to take in the suite as I kick the door closed behind me. It has a living area, which is currently filled with four of Dorian’s men, and on the far side of the room is a set of double doors. A small bar is to my right, and to my left is another door.

Someone shouts, and the bullets that fly in my direction land in the back of the man dying in my grip. I use him as a shield as I return my knife to its holster, pull out my own gun, and return fire. Two bullets land in the man at the bar, his back hitting the mirrored shelves, bottles and glasses crashing together and hitting the floor. I tilt my head to the side and down as bullets fly by me—from Jake’s gun. I shoot, and his head snaps back with the impact of the hit, a bloom of red appearing across his forehead before he falls onto the coffee table.

More screams.

But it isn’t Denver this time.

It’s a man.

I take down two more men who appear from the room to the left and reload as I head for what I assume are the double doors to the bedroom. The man inside keeps shouting, and I pull at the door handle. It doesn’t budge, and I fire at the lock twice before kicking it open.

Blood soaks an ivory-decorated room.

Dorian is in the corner, hands over his mouth, screaming into his palms as he bangs his forehead againstthe wall in a panicked rhythm. The carpet at his feet is covered in blood, and my gaze flits to the woman on the bed, a needle in her arm.

Mouth covered in blood, hands tied behind her back, is Denver. The straps of her dress are down, but she’s still covered. Her lips are parted, spittle and blood dripping down her chin.

“Denver.” I kneel on the bed, lightly tapping her face before carefully removing the needle. She tries to focus on me, blinking slowly, and whispers something before passing out. I turn my attention to Dorian. He’s whimpering, hands still over his mouth. “What the fuck did you give her?”

The door bangs open behind me, and I hear Taf before I see him, as he must observe the room with a horror similar to my own. Alistair probably called him the moment the phones went out.