Page 27

A s the minutes tick by, frustration gnaws at me. I’ve been sitting in this empty lot for over forty-five minutes, and there’s still no sign of her. Her rehearsal ended an hour ago. The city hums in the distance, crickets chirp, and I tap the steering wheel, impatience coursing through me.

Finally, I step out of the car, the cold night air biting at my skin. Striding toward the building, all I can think about is how I’d rather be spending my time—burying myself balls deep inside Rory, making her scream for release.

I rip open the heavy door, stepping into the dim hallway.

My mood darkens further when I see Alicia. She saunters over, her tight black pants and see-through top barely covering anything. Cheap and desperate.

“Axe, what a surprise,” she purrs, her fake tits on full display. “I’ve missed you.” Her finger traces over the skull tattoo on my arm.

“Where’s Rory?”

“I saw the marks you left on her. I warned her you have a way of destroying everything you touch.” Her hand drifts up to graze the tattoos on my neck, her proximity irking me. “Poor girl, she’s in way over her head.”

I clench my jaw, fighting to keep my rage in check. “Where. Is. She?”

“I haven’t seen her. She left after rehearsal. Maybe she’s had enough of being your personal punching bag,” she retorts. I’ve known her long enough to spot a lie.

I grab her by the throat, my grip tightening as her breath chokes out. “Watch your fucking mouth,” I hiss, pressing my face close to hers. “Stop lying to me, you stupid cunt.”

“Fuck...you,” she gasps, eyes wide with terror, her skin paling under my hold.

I tighten my grip around her throat. She writhes, her face turning a sickly purple. “Tell me the truth.”

“She’s...gone,” Alicia chokes out, her hands clawing desperately at my grip.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t—” I ease my grip just enough to let her speak. “I don’t know where they went. Please,” she pleads, tears streaking her face.

“Who?” I snap.

“Spencer...took her,” she manages through her gasps.

“Why did he take her?”

“Conrad...told him...to get her away from you,” she chokes out, her face now flushed and red.

This fucking family is testing the last shreds of my patience and self-control. “Where is he taking her?” I growl, my rage barely controlled.

“I...don’t...know,” she gasps, clawing at my grip. “But Conrad does.”

I release her, letting her collapse onto the floor like the worthless trash she is. She sputters, coughing, her face blotchy and smeared with mascara.

“Fuck you, Axel!” she screams, her voice cracking as she rubs her bruised neck. “I know you did something to Travis!”

Her words hit like a bullet out of nowhere, but I don’t flinch.

Travis.

I take a step closer, my shadow looming over her. “You better stop talking while you still can.”

I knew she’d bring up that bastard’s name eventually. Travis. Her old boyfriend. He was almost like a friend—once. Now he’s MIA, and we both know why—even if she won’t admit it. I’ve already spent too much time on this. I’m halfway out the door when I stop, just long enough to make sure she knows what’s coming.

“Alicia,” I growl, turning my head just enough to catch her eye. “You’ve been on my list for a long time. Piss me off again, and I’ll kill you. Slowly. You won’t see me coming, but trust me—you’ll feel every fucking second of it.”

I storm to my car, slamming the door behind me. I can’t believe Spencer fucking took her.

Pulling out my phone, I dial Conrad’s number. He answers on the first ring.

“A—” I quickly cut him off.

“Where the hell is she?”

“She’s safe,” he replies. “The same can’t be said for you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The Dolore are coming for you, Axe. And they won’t stop until they have your head. I suggest you stay vigilant and prepared. You should be thanking me for getting her away from you.”

“If they’re after me, they’re after you too,” I counter sharply.

“You’re right, they are. And I have a plan to deal with them. But the less you know, the better,” he says coolly.

“Don’t patronize me, Conrad. This was your goddamn Bond. You should have included me in this plan .”

“Axe, you are the most lethal weapon in our arsenal, and I intend to use you to wipe them out. But you are not invincible, and I will not risk losing my daughter.”

“WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?”

“Safe.”

“You think you’re protecting her? You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,” I growl, menace dripping from my words.

“And you do?” he challenges.

“She’s safest with me,” I hiss, teeth clenched.

“You branded her! MY DAUGHTER. She’ll never be safe with you. You’re a bastard, and the idea of you touching her makes me sick. I won’t allow it anymore.”

“You can’t stop me, Conrad. Don’t pretend you have any moral high ground. This was your fucking Bond. You sold her to me, and you know it.”

“Watch your tone, Hawthorne. Don’t forget who you’re talking to. I am your Commander,” he seethes. “She may be your wife, but she is my daughter. She is everything to me, and I will not let you destroy her.”

I don’t give a fuck what rank he holds. I am not some low-level grunt who fears his power. I am The Reaper, and I fear nothing and no one.

“I’ll find her. Count on it. I don’t give a fuck what you’ve got planned,” I spit through gritted teeth.

“Axe, do you seriously think you can defeat the Dolore?”

“Don’t underestimate me,” I snarl. “You, of all people, should know better. When I find her, we’ll have a different kind of conversation. A painful one. And Conrad, I’m not holding back.”

I sit in the car, fury clawing at my chest. The more I fight it, the hotter it burns. Rory’s phone goes straight to voicemail.

The fucking Valentines—a goddamn curse. Conrad’s about to find out who the real threat is, and it sure as hell isn’t the Dolore. I slam the car into gear and tear out of the parking lot, tires screaming against asphalt. Call after call, her phone goes straight to voicemail.

By the time I hit the driveway, rage has me in a chokehold. I storm inside, fists clenched, ready to destroy anything in my path.

“Griffen! Where the fuck are you?!”

Fuck. He’s on a damn mission.

I grab a glass and hurl it against the wall; the sound of it shattering briefly satisfying. Snatching up a bottle of whiskey, I down it in one brutal gulp. The burn is raw, but it spreads warmth through my chest. I crash into a chair, trying to steady my mind as the whiskey takes hold.

Thoughts spin like a hurricane. I need a plan. Another gulp of whiskey steadies me. Clear head. No more losing control. Stay sharp. Stay cold.

The whiskey loosens my muscles, my gaze locked on the empty fireplace. She’s mine, and no Valentine’s taking her from me. They think they can protect her? Bullshit. I’m the only one who can. And now she’s out there—vulnerable.

The thought of her in danger sends a jolt through me. Fear. What the fuck? Since when do I give a damn if she lives or dies?

I hate her father, her brother, the whole fucking Valentine dynasty. But her?

I want to destroy her. Break her.

Don’t I?

I shake my head, the whiskey fog creeping in. “Fuck this.” I drain the bottle in one pull. Whiskey won’t fix this, but it’s a start.

My eyes snap open. Heart pounding. Sweat-soaked sheets stick to my skin. The nightmare rips at me, dragging me back to a horror I thought I’d buried. No, not a nightmare—a memory.

I glance at the clock—just three hours gone. I’m still fully dressed, the room dark except for moonlight bleeding through the window.

I shove the sheets off and stagger to the bathroom, the weight of the past dragging me down. Cold water slams against my face, shocking, but it doesn’t erase the reflection staring back. Haunted. Empty.

Fuck.

I haven’t thought about that day in years. My father’s twisted lessons, his sadistic cruelty—they don’t compare to that day. The day everything changed.

My fingers trace the jagged scar on my neck, his final gift.

He’s rotting in the ground now, and good fucking riddance. But his legacy festers. It lives in me. In the rage. In the pain. In the predator he made me.

I take a breath. Deep. Controlled. There’s no room for weakness here. No room for sentiment. This is my life—the only life I’ve ever known. A killer. A Sovereign.

I step into the shower, scalding water hammering against my skin, stripping away the grime, the ache, the past. None of it matters. Only one thing does now: finding Rory and dragging her back where she belongs.

She means nothing to me.

So why the hell can’t I shake her?

This is a transaction. She’s a Bond. A tool. A pawn in my game to destroy Conrad. She’s not a real wife.

She’s payment. And she’s mine.

The chill in the night air slices through me, and Kane’s whining down the hallway gnaws at my nerves. I open the bedroom door, call him, but he doesn’t budge.

I follow his incessant whines to Rory’s room. “Come here,” I snap. He just scratches at her door, his whines turning more pitiful. “Seriously?” I swing the door open, and he bolts inside, leaping onto her bed and curling up with a satisfied grunt.

“Unbelievable.” I turn to leave but freeze when I see it—the knife. The one I gave her as the masked stranger. She kept it. Of course, she did.

A twisted thought crawls into my mind. Maybe I can use this. I pull out my phone, open the app that hides my number, and fire off a message from the masked stranger— her savior. The man who made her attempted rapist disappear and held her while she cried for thirty-five fucking minutes.

Unknown: I want to see you again. Tell me when.

I wait, staring at the screen. The seconds feel like hours. Minutes tick by. An hour. Two.

Finally, after two hours, her reply comes.

Rory: I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

Unknown: Why?

Rory: It’s complicated.

Unknown: It doesn’t have to be. Just say yes.

I can practically picture her biting her lip, debating her answer. Come on, Rory. Be dumb and stupid. Say yes.

Rory: Okay, fine. Yes.

A sick thrill burns through me. Too fucking easy. She gives me the address to her gilded cage—the Hamptons. Precise instructions: come at night, use a specific window.

Now the question is, do I show up as myself or the masked man?

Fuck, this is irrational. I should end this fucked-up game and go as me. She’ll never choose me over him. She hates me. Dodged my calls and texts all night, but it only took her two hours to agree to meet the masked man.

Jesus Christ.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. But if it means getting her back, then it’s worth the risk—as the masked man.

She’ll pick him every time.

When I’m me, she’s cold, distant, shutting me out. But when I was him , she let down her guard. She sought comfort, opened up, wanted me— the stranger, not me.

It’s infuriating. Watching her let another man close. Fucking the masked man—again.

Fuck. I can’t deal with this.

I need to see her.

Tonight.

I’ll go as the masked man. Let her feel safe. And then I’ll strip away the disguise and show her the truth: that the man she trusts, the one she wants —it’s me.