Page 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

Blaze

After Wolfe’s departure, the room erupts into chaos. Rough hands seize my arms, yanking me away from Ember. Her scream pierces the air, raw and desperate.

“Blaze!”

I thrash against the iron grip, muscles straining. A meaty fist connects with my gut, driving the air from my lungs. I double over, gasping, but manage to lift my head. Ember’s wild eyes lock onto mine as two guards drag her toward the door.

“Ember!” Her name tears from my throat.

I throw my weight forward, catching one guard off balance. My elbow slams into his solar plexus. He wheezes, grip loosening.

For a heartbeat, I almost break free, but then pain explodes at the base of my skull. The world tilts sideways, and Ember’s face blurs as darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision.

“No…” The word comes out slurred. I try to take a step, but my legs won’t cooperate. The concrete floor rushes up to meet me.

The last thing I hear is Ember calling my name, her voice fading like a radio losing signal. Then silence swallows me whole.

Time becomes elastic. I drift in and out of consciousness, aware of movement, of hands roughly manhandling me. Pain pulses through my body in dull waves. Voices filter in, distorted and far away:

“…tougher than he looks…”

“…Boss wants him softened up…”

“…gonna enjoy this one…”

My head lolls as they drag me down endless corridors. The fluorescent lights overhead strobe nauseatingly, each flash sending daggers through my skull. I try to focus and memorize the route, but it’s like holding onto smoke.

A door creaks open. They shove me inside, and I collapse in an ungraceful heap. As the lock clicks shut, I spiral back into the numbing embrace of oblivion.

My head throbs, a dull, persistent ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat. Consciousness creeps back slowly, like wading through molasses. The first sensation that hits me is the taste of copper—blood, thick and cloying on my tongue. I try to swallow, but my throat feels like sandpaper.

Slowly, I force my eyes open. Big mistake. The world swims, a nauseating blur of shadows and a sickly yellow light. I blink hard, willing my vision to focus. As it does, reality crashes in with brutal clarity.

I’m strapped to a chair in what looks like a set piece from a horror movie. Rusty pipes snake across a ceiling stained with years of water damage and God knows what else. A single bulb dangles overhead, its light flickering erratically, casting monstrous shadows that writhe on the concrete walls.

The air is thick with the stench of mildew and something worse—the unmistakable coppery bite of old blood.

Pain radiates through my body as I take stock of my injuries. My ribs scream in protest with each breath, a sharp counterpoint to the dull throb in my skull. Something warm and sticky trickles down my chin—probably a cut to my forehead. The way the room keeps tilting suggests a concussion. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I test my restraints, careful to keep the movement subtle. Thick leather straps bite into my wrists and ankles, securing me to a chair that feels bolted to the floor.

No give.

No weak points I can exploit.

Whoever trussed me up knew what they were doing.

Memories flash through my mind in disjointed fragments. Ember’s terrified face as they dragged her away—the sickening crunch of a fist connecting with my jaw. Darkness closing in as a boot slammed into my temple.

Ember. Where is she? What are they doing to her? The thought sends a fresh surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins, momentarily cutting through the fog of pain and disorientation.

Focus, Hawkins. Assess. Plan. Survive.

I force myself to catalog every detail of my surroundings, pushing past the pounding in my skull. The room is small, maybe ten by twelve feet. No windows, just a heavy metal door opposite me.

The walls are bare concrete, stained and crumbling in places. A small drain in the center of the floor is clogged with what looks disturbingly like hair.

In the corner, a rusted cart holds an assortment of objects that make my stomach churn: pliers, scales, and things I don’t want to name. The message is clear: this is a place designed for pain.

A sudden creak makes me stiffen. The door swings open with agonizing slowness, hinges protesting. I brace myself, muscles coiling despite the restraints.

Damien Wolfe steps into the room, and the temperature drops ten degrees. He’s a study in contrasts—impeccably tailored suit, not a hair out of place, moving with the fluid grace of a predator. He looks like he’s stepped out of a board meeting or a high-end fashion shoot.

His eyes, though… Those are pure death. Cold. Calculating. They sweep over me, assessing, measuring. I force my face into a mask of indifference, even as every instinct screams danger.

“Mr. Hawkins.” Wolfe’s voice is smooth as silk and pleasant. It sends chills down my spine. “I do hope you’re finding your accommodations—adequate.”

I say nothing. Reaction is a weakness, and I can’t afford to give him an inch.

“ Tsk, tsk. ” Wolfe shakes his head like a disappointed teacher. “Now, now. There’s no need for the silent treatment. We’re all friends here.”

He moves closer, each step measured and deliberate. His expensive cologne mingles with the room’s foul odors in a way that turns my stomach.

“I must say, I’m impressed,” Wolfe continues, circling my chair. I resist the urge to crane my neck to keep him in sight. “You’ve led us on quite the merry chase. It’s not often someone manages to slip through my fingers so—persistently.”

He stops directly in front of me, hands clasped behind his back. A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which remain cold and analytical.

“I’ll admit, I underestimated you. A mistake I won’t be repeating.” Wolfe leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You see, Mr. Hawkins, I pride myself on being thorough. On knowing my opponents inside and out.”

His hand shoots out, fingers gripping my jaw with surprising strength. He forces my head up, studying my face like a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.

“And you, my friend, are quite the fascinating puzzle.”

I meet his gaze, pouring every ounce of defiance into my glare. Wolfe’s smile widens, a predator scenting blood.

“Oh yes,” he murmurs. “This is going to be most enlightening.”

He releases me abruptly and steps back. I fight to keep my expression neutral, to not show how my heart is racing or how the room tilts again.

Wolfe straightens his already immaculate jacket. “Now then, shall we begin? I have so many questions for you, Mr. Hawkins. About your team. Your mission. Your—attachment to our dear Ember.”

I can’t entirely suppress a flinch at the mention of her name. Wolfe’s eyes gleam with triumph.

“Ah, there it is.” His voice drips with satisfaction. “You know, for a man in your line of work, you wear your heart quite prominently on your sleeve. It’s going to get you into trouble one of these days.”

He pauses, considering. “Oh, wait. It already has.”

Wolfe turns, moving to the cart in the corner. His fingers trail over the implements there, almost lovingly. “Last chance to make this easy on yourself, Mr. Hawkins. Tell me what I want to know, and we can avoid all the—unpleasantness.”

I take a deep breath, centering myself. Whatever comes next, I can handle it. I have to. For Ember. For my team.

I look Wolfe dead in the eye and say the only thing I can. “Go to hell.”