Page 34

34

CHASE

Lancing pain radiates through my wrists. My eyes crack open, and I take in slivers of shadow and uneven light. Goddamn. Didn’t get back up in time.

A shock of ice-cold water slams into me. I jerk, coughing, as the sting spreads across my face and chest. For a moment, I keep my eyes shut, the darkness easier than what waits. But the second time they open—fully—the weight of it all hits me.

Chains dig into my raw skin as I struggle against them, the metallic clink echoing off the vaulted ceiling. My gaze flickers upward. The space is enormous for something underground—an architectural oddity. Rounded arches stretch high above, almost elegant in their shape, but the cracked plaster and exposed brick make them feel like a mockery.

From the shadows, Damon Stone steps forward, a smirk carved into his face. His voice is as smooth as oil and just as foul. “Welcome to The Chapel!” He spreads his arms as if he’s a damn preacher.

A chandelier of mismatched bulbs flickers overhead. Lights are minimal, enough to highlight the graffiti-scrawled walls and the rotting wood. ‘The Chapel’—yeah, it’s fitting, in a twisted way.

“Look at you,” Damon sneers, pacing slowly. His stance is loose, the bat in his hand scrapes against the ground, releasing a grating sound. He circles me, dragging it out. “Chained up like the biblical Samson. Only here, it’s not Delilah who brought you down, but your love for her. We can end this peacefully, you know. Just tell me where she is.”

I force myself to meet his gaze, even as the fire in my body rages against the pain. “Kiss my shit, Damon.”

His smirk deepens, and in a flash, he grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. “Ah, but this Samson still has his hair,” he taunts. “Quite the weapon when it comes to the ladies, hmm?”

I clench my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. He releases my hair with a scoff, but not without twisting my body against the cuffs holding my wrists. My weight shifts painfully, the steel digging into already raw skin. I grimace, trying to steady myself, my muscles screaming with every movement.

“The problem with a big guy,” Damon mocks, his voice dripping with fake sympathy, “is that all that mass just works against you when you’re strung up like this. Hurts, doesn’t it?”

I bite down hard, swallowing the groan clawing at my throat. I won’t give him the pleasure of hearing it, even though I know he’s right. My strength, my size—everything that usually gives me an edge—is my enemy now.

Damon taps the bat against his palm, almost thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his tone shifting to one of cruel nostalgia, “I’d been looking for you. Then I heard you were off playing hero for your country—a SEAL, no less—and poof! You vanished. Mira hiring you was just dumb luck. When I found out you were in town, I wanted to do exactly this to you.”

The bat swings, hard and fast, slamming into my ribs. Pain explodes through my torso, and this time I can’t stop the low groan that escapes. Worse than the impact is the way my body swings helplessly from the chains, the agony in my wrists doubling as the cuffs bite deeper.

Damon grins, pleased with himself. “I’d wanted to do that when I saw you in your shiny suit, in that shiny little office of yours. But Mira convinced me you wouldn’t talk. Said we’d be better off watching you, letting you lead us to Oakley and my baby. Stupid bitch.” He scoffs, pacing again, the bat dragging along the ground. “I shouldn’t have listened to her. Should’ve done this sooner.”

I glare at him. “Honor and I are a class above you two—smarter, stronger, better in every way.”

The bat comes down again, this time with a crack that sends fire ripping through my side. A rib, maybe more. I taste blood as I grind my teeth, refusing to let him hear the scream threatening to break free.

“You would’ve talked,” Damon says, leaning closer. “You would’ve cracked. But I let Mira call the shots, and look where that got her—rotting away in Billings. Women’s prison. She’ll be better off there than as a Stone’s wife.”

I smirk. “Rotting? Sounds like a step up from being stuck with you.”

Damon’s grin falters for just a second before he recovers, climbing onto a raised platform like an executioner. From up there, he looks down on me, his arrogance practically dripping from every word. “You know, Samson, after I get Oakley and Damon Jr. back, you’ll be finished. Completely. Nothing left of you.”

I grit my teeth, staring at him despite the ache in my body. The bastard doesn’t even realize how delusional he sounds. Damon Jr.? Really? Honor was right—he’d want to name the kid after himself. What a pathetic excuse for a man.

“Actually,” Damon adds, smirking as if the thought just occurred to him, “forget that. I think I want you alive just a little while longer. Long enough to see what I’ll do to your precious Honor. Long enough to feel it.”

My blood burns, rage rising to a boil. Never. Over my dead body. He’s not going to lay a single finger on her. I force myself to breathe, to keep control. Honor’s smart—smart enough to stay one step ahead of him. And if the worst comes, I know my Red Mark brothers will find her. They’ll protect her. I have to believe that.

Damon draws something out from behind his jacket. A knife glints, its point aimed directly at my face. “Tell me where the bitch is!”

“Not a chance!”

Damon swings the blade. I shut my eyes, my muscles tense involuntarily, refusing to feel where it has landed.

After a few seconds, I feel it, the searing agony that shoots through my shoulder. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to cry out.

“I should’ve killed you long ago!” The desperation in his voice almost drowns out the pounding in my chest. “You were always his favorite, weren’t you? Chase this, Chase that. But I treated you like a little brother. And a real brother doesn’t betray his own.”

I let out a dry laugh. “So this is about your old man? You’re jealous of me?”

His eyes flare with rage as he swings the knife again, harder this time. I see it coming, the blade slams into my biceps, pain exploding like a firework. A cry tears from my throat, only to be drowned out by the clanging of the chains rattling above me.

Fuckers!

I bite down on the pain. The metal cuffs feel even tighter around my wrists, the tremors in my body betraying my resolve.

“Where is she?” he yells.

“Keep dreaming, Stone!” I spit back.

His face twists, his rage shaking the edges of his words. “You were pissing yourself, Chase Samson. Don’t forget—I saved you once.”

Our eyes lock, and for a fleeting moment, the memory flashes—Damon standing between me and those out-of-town butchers, taking them down before their blades could find my flesh. The irony isn’t lost on me.

He leans closer, his voice a venomous whisper now. “Let me save you this one last time. Tell me where she is.”

I hold his gaze, steel in my words. “I will never give her up.”

The tip of his blade dances dangerously close to my eye, the glint has blurred.

Then, the shrill buzz of a phone shatters the charged silence. Damon growls, his jaw tightening, but after a moment of hesitation, he yanks the phone from his pocket and answers.

“Yeah?” His tone is short, irritated.

I watch him as he listens, his expression shifting from annoyance to something darker. Then, a smirk crawls across his face.

“You sure it’s her?” He pauses. “Well, take her!” he shouts into the phone with a half-laugh. “If she asks how? Tell that bitch, her man cracked. Say he couldn’t take the pain.”

A knot coils deep in my gut. “What the fuck, Stone!” I snap, my voice hoarse from the screaming.

He lowers the phone, letting his gaze rest on me. “That was Patch. You haven’t met him. Resourceful guy, that one. Turns out he’s found your Honor.” He pauses, savoring the words. “Somewhere in Canada. That sound about right?”

“No!” The word tears from me as I yank against the chains, the pain in my wrists drowned by the panic surging through me. “No! You’re lying!”

Damon chuckles, tapping the bat against his thigh. “While the rest of my men followed you south, Patch had the good sense to dig deeper. He poked around Kalispell, talked to a Mrs. Tucker-MacPhee. Apparently, she remembered telling a man that one of her foster girls trying to escape to Canada. The man was from some protection company. Big guy.”

The room spins as the realization crashes into me. No. No. No!

Damon laughs along with the rattling of chains above me. “What a waste of suffering.” He steps closer, leaning down so I can see the full extent of his twisted glee. “Don’t worry. She’ll be here soon.”

Then he strides out, the heavy door slamming shut behind him, leaving me with a couple of guards. Pain racks my body, but it’s nothing compared to the ache spreading through my chest. I’ve failed. Failed Honor. Failed everything.