Page 19 of Heresy (The Lost Gospels #1)

FOURTEEN

THE ROT IN THE CROWN

HEX

F rom my office on the first-floor landing, I watch the main room through the one-way glass. It’s a king’s perch, a throne of shadows. I should be reviewing Glitch’s latest intelligence on Cain, mapping out the logistics for the snatch team. My mind should be a cold, clear battlefield of strategy.

But it’s not. It’s a cage, and I’m just staring at the bars, waiting.

I know she’s going to try something. The defiance I saw in her eyes is the kind that festers, that sharpens itself in the dark.

For the last two days, a tense, electric anticipation has settled in my gut.

I’m a hunter who has set a complex trap and is now waiting, with a patience that borders on obsession, to see if the prey is clever enough to test the walls.

Down below, Fuse sits in the deep leather armchair in the corner, a silent, waiting trigger. My orders to him were simple: "Sit. Don't move. Don't speak unless she makes it to the floor."

On my monitor, I watch the feed from the hallway camera. I see the door to her cell creak open. I watch the ghost slip out. I watch her creep down the hall, silent and graceful. I watch her peer over the staircase. My hand clenches. She is more magnificent than I imagined.

She descends the stairs, a wraith in the darkness. She makes it to the floor. Halfway across the room, her hope is a palpable thing.

And then Fuse speaks. His voice, casual and chilling, drifts up to my perch. "Prez! I think your property tried to take a walk."

That is my cue. I push my chair back and open the door, stepping out from the shadows of my office onto the landing.

I don't look at Fuse. My eyes, burning with a cold, terrible fire, are locked directly on her.

She freezes, her body a statue of shattered hope, her eyes wide with the soul-crushing horror of her failure.

I descend the stairs, my movements unhurried. The few remaining brothers stop what they’re doing, their eyes flicking between me, Fuse, and the captured woman. They expect rage. They expect the animal from the hallway. They are about to be disappointed.

I stop in front of her. "Go get Rook and Zero," I say to Fuse, my voice calm, conversational. "Tell them to meet me upstairs. In the cell."

Fuse nods, his eyes glinting with respect for a coldness he understands, and rises from his chair. I turn my attention back to her. She is still frozen, a mouse on a killing floor.

“Come here,” I say. It’s not a request.

She flinches but obeys, crossing the room to stand before me. She keeps her chin high, her eyes fixed just over my shoulder. The splinter is still sharp. Good. Rook and Zero materialize at my side, their presence completing the triangle of authority.

“Escort her back to her cell,” I say to them. “I’ll be up in a moment.”

I watch them lead her away, a silent, grim procession up the four flights of stairs. I am not punishing her in public. This is not a lesson for the club. This lesson is just for her.

I give them five minutes. Long enough for them to secure her in the room, long enough for her to think she knows what’s coming next. The anticipation of violence is often a more effective tool than the violence itself.

When I enter the cell, the scene is just as I pictured it. She is pressed against the far wall, her body tense, her eyes blazing with a defiant terror. Rook stands near the door, a watchful guardian. Zero is a shadow in the corner.

I close the heavy steel door behind me, the sound a definitive THUD that seals the four of us in this concrete box.

“Leave us,” I say to my brothers.

They exchange a look but obey without question, stepping out into the hallway. I hold Rook's gaze for a beat.

"Shut the door," I command, my voice low.

I take a final step back into the cell as Rook pulls the heavy steel door closed from the outside. The latch clicks shut with a heavy, definitive sound, sealing us in our private world and leaving me alone with her.

I walk to the center of the room. I don’t look at her. I look at the floor near the door. “You were quiet,” I begin, my voice a low, conversational rumble. “The steps in the hall, your feet on the stairs. Silent. Very good. You have experience moving without being heard.”

I crouch down and pick something up from the floor, something she can’t see.

“But your tool was crude.” I stand and turn to face her, opening my palm.

Lying there is the pathetic piece of bent metal wrapped in hardened bread.

“An underwire. Clever, in a desperate sort of way. You were patient. You were meticulous. You found the flaw in the system. The new prospect. Too green, too scared by the war outside to remember the deadbolt. A sloppy mistake. On his part.”

I toss the makeshift tool onto her cot. Her eyes follow it, her face pale. She thought she was so close.

I take a step closer, my voice dropping. “Your technique was good. That little twist at the end to slide the bolt…” I let the sentence hang in the air, watching the confusion and fear war in her eyes. I lean in, a whisper meant only for her. “Sasha taught you well, didn’t he?”

Her reaction is everything I hoped for and more.

It’s not a gasp. It’s a complete cessation of breathing.

I watch the blood drain from her face, leaving her skin a translucent white.

Her defiant eyes, for the first time, are wide with a pure, existential terror.

It’s the look of a ghost that has just seen itself in a mirror.

I have her.

I’ve spent the last three days with Glitch, sifting through the digital ghost of her life.

The fabricated identity of “Vera Ivanov” was a thin shell.

Underneath it was Katarina Volkov, daughter of a Russian oligarch who vanished eight months ago.

And with that name came a history. Associates.

Bodyguards. Including one quiet killer named Sasha, an ex-Spetsnaz who taught the boss’s daughter how to play chess and, apparently, other, more useful skills.

“You see, little ghost,” I continue, straightening up, my voice returning to a cold, flat tone. “You think this is a cage of concrete and steel. You’re wrong. This is a cage of information. And I have all of it.”

I walk over to the cot and pick up the Robert Frank photography book. “Privileges are earned,” I say, my voice devoid of emotion. “And you just proved you’re not ready for them.”

I hold the book out to her. For a moment, she just stares at it, her mind clearly reeling from the mention of Sasha. Then, a flicker of that familiar fire returns to her eyes. She understands. This is the tangible punishment.

“I don’t want it,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.

“I know,” I say. And that is the point. I am not taking away something she wants; I am taking away something I know she needs . The one piece of beauty, the one connection to the art that defines her.

I turn and walk to the door, the heavy book in my hand.

I knock twice, the signal for the bolt to be thrown.

The door opens, revealing Rook’s impassive face.

I step out into the hallway, then turn back to her one last time.

She is still pressed against the wall, but her head is high, her eyes are locked on me, blazing with a hatred so pure it’s almost beautiful.

“That was a good first move, little ghost,” I say, my voice a low, final promise. “A good attempt. But don’t ever forget whose board you’re playing on. This isn’t a cage you can pick the lock on. This is a lesson. And I have so much more to teach you.”

I close the door. The bolt slides home. Then, the final, sharp CLICK of the deadbolt that she now knows she will never beat.

I walk down the hallway, the heavy book in my hand, the ghost of her hateful stare burned into my mind. Rook falls into step beside me, his silence a question.

“You found something,” he says, not asking.

“Everything,” I reply.

We walk the four flights down to my office in silence. I close the door, leaving him outside. I need the solitude. I need to process the victory.

But it doesn’t feel like a victory.

I sit at my desk, the photography book open before me. I stare at the image of the hammer, my “art.” The cold satisfaction I felt when I took the picture is gone. Replaced by what?

The deconstruction in her cell wasn’t just a punishment for her; it was a performance for me.

A way to reassert the control I felt slipping, the cold, calculating king putting the emotional, impulsive animal back in its cage.

I needed to prove to myself that I was still the one in command, that her defiance hadn't cracked my foundations.

I succeeded. I saw true fear in her eyes. I broke through her defenses and touched a nerve from a life she thought she had buried. I won the battle.

So why does it feel like I’m losing the war?

I look from the photo of the hammer to the live feed of her cell on my monitor.

She is not pacing. She is not exercising.

She is sitting on her cot, perfectly still, staring at the wall where the barred window casts a pale, gray rectangle of light.

She is rebuilding her fortress, brick by silent, defiant brick.

The splinter isn't gone. I haven't removed it. I’ve just proven how deep it goes. And in doing so, I’ve lodged it even deeper in myself.

My obsession with understanding her, with breaking her, has become the new center of my universe.

The war with Cain, the needs of my club…

they are distant noise. The only thing that feels real is the silent, psychological war being waged between me and the woman in that cell.

I close the book. The lesson wasn't for her. It was for me. I’m the one trapped in a cage of my own making, haunted by ghosts I can’t exorcise, staring at a woman whose will may be stronger than my own.

And the terrifying, unspoken truth that hangs in the silence of my office is that I’m not sure I want to win.