Page 39

Chapter 39

Piers

T he urge to run after Fantasia nearly undoes me. My fists clench, nails biting into my palms as I force myself to stay put. Every instinct I have screams to push past Arthur and Roger, to make sure she’s safe- to see her with my own eyes, breathing and whole. But I can’t. Not yet.

Instead, I keep low, shadowing my men as we slip around the back of the stone wall, moving through the dark like smoke. The gravel crunches under our boots, loud enough to make me wince. Every sound feels too sharp, too risky.

The two cars Harold arrived in are parked just ahead, sleek and black with tinted windows that swallow the moonlight. Both drivers linger outside, one leaning against the hood, the other pacing slowly, his cigarette flaring red in the dark.

Arthur gestures for us to hang back, then bends to scoop up a loose chunk of gravel. A quick tilt of his chin- a silent ready? - before launching the rock into the trees.

The crack of branches snapping makes both drivers snap to attention. One swears under his breath, the cigarette tumbling from his fingers as he spins toward the noise. The other draws a gun from his belt and steps away from the car, eyes narrowing as he peers into the dark.

“Go,” Arthur hisses.

I dart forward, heart hammering. Roger flanks me on one side, Arthur on the other. We reach the first car, and Roger moves fast, sliding a thin blade into the trunk’s lock and twisting until it pops open with a soft click .

“Get in,” Roger mutters.

I clench my teeth and climb in, my pulse thudding in my ears. The air is stale and heavy with the scent of oil and rubber. I shift, pressing my back against the cold metal wall, tucking my knees to my chest.

Arthur follows, shoving himself in beside me. Roger takes the second car, slipping into the trunk just as quietly.

The lids close, swallowing us in darkness.

The silence feels suffocating, like the air is too thick to breathe. Every breath feels too loud, too risky. I count seconds- one, two, three- until I lose track entirely.

I don’t know how long we sit there, waiting in the black. My legs cramp, my back aches, but I don’t move. I can’t. Not when every breath feels like a countdown to the moment those engines roar to life- the moment Harold drives away, with my daughter in the car.

The muffled cries hit me like a fist to the chest.

My breath hitches, my pulse pounding in my ears as I strain to listen. It’s faint, but it’s there- soft, hiccuping sobs, the kind that scrape raw from a tiny throat.

A child.

My fingers curl against the cramped walls of the trunk, every muscle in my body locking up. Fantasia’s child.

The air in here is thick, suffocating, but the weight pressing on my chest has nothing to do with the space.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about whether she’s mine.

Don’t think about how many nights I’ve spent wondering.

It doesn’t matter. She’s Fantasia’s, and that’s all I need to know. That makes her mine to protect.

I clench my jaw, steadying my breath, forcing my body to stay still. I can’t afford to lose focus now.

The phone in my pocket is a dead weight—a silent tether to Achilles, to the only backup I have in this godforsaken situation. He’s tracking my every move, but that won’t mean shit if I get myself killed before we get the kid out.

The ride to Harold’s estate is long, tense, and silent, save for the occasional sniffle from the child in the back. Every second feels like a goddamn eternity, my muscles locked tight in the cramped trunk. I focus on my breathing, on the rhythmic hum of the tires against the road. I need to be sharp. One wrong move, and we’re all dead.

When the cars finally roll to a stop, I don’t move. Can’t move. Not yet.

Through the tiny gaps in the trunk, I listen. Doors opening. Voices, low and clipped. Footsteps crunching over gravel. A distant door creaking open, then slamming shut.

Then… nothing.

Time stretches, unbearable. My fingers flex against the rough fabric beneath me. Every instinct screams at me to move , to get the hell out of here and find Fantasia’s kid, but I don’t. Not yet.

Hours pass. I count the breaths, the shifts in the house. The occasional murmur of voices drifts through the thick walls. A door groans on its hinges. Footsteps fade down a hall.

Then, finally, silence.

Now.

I take a slow, steady breath, then shift my weight, pressing my shoulder against the trunk’s lid. A quiet pop, then the faintest creak as it lifts.

Arthur slides out of the trunk first, his movements smooth and deliberate as he hits the ground with barely a sound. I follow closely behind, making sure my boots land just as softly. Across from me, Roger emerges from the other car, moving silently.

We exchange a glance. No words needed.

Then, keeping low, we slip into the shadows and make our way inside.

The halls are dark, the silence thick. Every breath I take is measured, every step calculated. The old wood floors creak if you step in the wrong place, but I’ve spent my whole damn life learning how to move where I shouldn’t be.

Roger and Arthur move just behind me, their footsteps as light as mine. We grew up together, learned how to move unseen in the orphanage—sneaking food, dodging fights, slipping past curfews. We were hungry kids in a world that didn’t give a damn about us. Now, we’re dangerous men in a house that doesn’t know we’re here.

At the end of the hall, I pause, scanning the shadows. Then I glance at Roger, catching his eye in the dark. I make a quick hand sign— check left. He nods, peeling away silently. I motion to Arthur next— right. He disappears into the opposite hall.

I press forward, sticking to the main corridor. Harold wouldn’t keep a kid with his men—too risky. She’s close. I just have to find her before someone else does.

A faint sound—soft, hiccuping breaths.

I freeze. My pulse hammers. Then I move toward the noise, slipping into the shadows.

The glow of a phone screen flickers against the hallway’s dim light, casting the guard’s face in an eerie blue. He’s slouched against the doorframe, thumbs tapping idly at the screen, oblivious to the danger lurking just beyond the shadows.

Rookie mistake.

I press my back against the wall, motioning to Roger and Arthur to hold back. The bastard’s eyes are locked on whatever mindless shit he’s scrolling through, pupils shrunk to pinpricks from the screen’s glare. He won’t see a damn thing in the dark beyond it—not until it’s too late.

Silent as death, I move.

He barely gets a breath in before my arm hooks around his throat, yanking him back into the shadows. He sputters, phone slipping from his grip, but I clamp down hard, cutting off both air and sound. His body thrashes for a second, then slackens. Out cold.

I lower him to the ground and step over him, my pulse steady. I nod to Roger and Arthur.

“Let’s move.”

Roger and Arthur take their positions outside the door, their bodies blending into the shadows. I don’t wait. Easing the handle down, I slip inside, shutting the door without a sound.

The room is too big, too cold. Ornate furniture looms in the dim light, but my focus sharpens on the bed in the center—too large for the tiny form curled up beneath the blankets.

My breath hitches.

She’s small, barely taking up a fraction of the mattress. Tear tracks glisten on her cheeks, her lips parted around little hiccuping breaths, the kind that only come after crying too hard for too long. Even in sleep, her tiny fists clutch at the blanket like she’s holding onto it for comfort.

But it’s the hair that stops me cold. A mess of soft, untamed waves.

Bright.

Fiery.

Red.

Just like?—