by Smoke , Lucy
“Return to your post,” Ace orders, interrupting him. “I don’t have time for your excuses. You got your anger out. Now, it’s my turn.”
“We gotta move soon. The other one is getting restless,” Robert replies.
Other one? I think dimly. Shit, did they keep Corina, after all?
I release a low groan as Ace leans down, grabbing onto the back of my chair, and lifts me back up. My head spins. “Release the other girl, pretenses are no longer needed,” he orders. “She’ll explain.”
My mind tries to catch up with his words, but it’s hard to focus when the room is fading in and out of my vision. I open my mouth to say something, but before a word can come out, a sharp sting stabs my arm. I look over, blinking as I realize a needle is sticking out of my arm, and Ace is standing there with a small smile on his face as he says something to Robert. Whatever he says is lost to me, though, as the rest of the world blinks out of existence.
45
Dean
I spend less than an hour in the interrogation room with Sergio McConner, and by the time I'm done with him, I have what I need. It's clear he was nothing more than a scout—there's no loyalty to whoever he was working for.
Abel, Braxton, and I step out of the interrogation room, with the sounds of Sergio’s broken sobs following us. He's lucky I didn't fucking kill him, but to do so, I'd need more time. Something I don't have much of right now.
"Here," Abel hands me a napkin from the coffee station we pass in the hall on our way out. "You've got blood on your face."
I take it with a scowl and wipe it across my face, frowning in disgust when it comes away with splotches of blood on it—some of it fresh and some of it already crusting and turning brown. Crumpling the napkin in my fist, I toss it in the nearest trash can. "Deal with the chief," I snap, heading straight for the door.
Abel nods and veers down a short hallway as Braxton and I continue outside. The second I get to the SUV, I turn and smash my hand into the side door. The metal buckles under the weight of my anger, and my hand throbs in response.
“We’ll find her, Dean.” Braxton’s words don’t calm me at all. Nothing can. Nothing but seeing Avalon alive and well in front of me will.
My phone chimes, and I pull my hand back from the car door and reach into my pocket, retrieving my cell. I look at the screen and scowl before punching the green button. “Did you do this?” I demand.
There’s a pause, and then my father’s voice comes across the receiver. “What’s happened?”
“Avalon,” I say through gritted teeth. “You knew she was with me. Did you fucking take her?”
“She’s missing?”
“Don’t fucking act like you don’t know what the fuck is going on.” I’m angry enough that I could kill the fucker—I would if he were in front of me right now. He’s lucky he’s not. My hand clenches on the phone. “If I find out that you did this,” I warn him. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Don’t make threats you can’t see through, son.” There’s my father. The man who rules the Carter empire with an iron fist. The coldness in his tone is steel sharp, voice like a goddamn blade, ready and willing to slice me to the bone. “Explain to me what’s happened with Avalon, and I’ll see what I can do to help.”
“Help?” I scoff. “You expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with her being taken?”
“Whatever you believe,” Nicholas Carter replies, “know that I do not want that girl hurt. She’s been through enough.”
That comment gives me pause. My shoulders lower, not quite relaxing, but the tension that previously flooded my system dissipates somewhat. “You’re really not involved?” I demand again. “The truth, Father.”
“If she’s been taken, I can assure you I had nothing to do with it. There’s a reason I haven’t said anything about the fact that you’ve moved her in with you and the boys.” Over twenty years old, and he still calls the three of us boys. I shake my head. He’ll never change.
“You approached her on campus,” I remind him.
“Not with ill intentions,” he says.
“So, you claim,” I snap.
“I didn’t take her, Dean,” he growls. “If I did, I wouldn’t be calling you now—if I did, you would never find her.”
Now, that I do believe. He’s a conniving bastard. Always looking three steps ahead. If he didn’t take her, then who the fuck did? “Do you know who’s behind this?” I demand. His silence is far more telling than if he’d answered too quickly. My voice deepens when I speak again. “Who?”
“If I could tell you without any repercussions, know that I would, Son,” he says, his tone growing more dangerous. “But I can’t. I’ll do what I can, but if they’ve taken her now, this is their end game.”
“They?” I repeat. “Damn it, Dad, just fucking tell me!”
Braxton’s eyes track me as I stand next to the SUV. I don’t look at him. I don’t react to the anger in his eyes, to the violence I know I’ll see in them if I look. He hadn’t gotten a chance to go after Sergio—I needed to leave the man alive. If I had to come back, though, he would get his chance with the fucker. He would get that, but now I need my father to answer me. I need him to give me a goddamn clue.
“Find her, Dean,” he says. “I’ll work on this from my end. They won’t be easy to pin down. Your job is to find the girl—and protect her.”
That won’t be a fucking issue, I think. The second Avalon is back in my sights, she won’t be leaving. Not until I know that the threat against her is exterminated. My father, however, doesn’t wait for me to say that. As I part my lips to reply, there’s a beep, and I yank the phone away from my ear, staring down at the ended call in angry shock.
I have half a mind to throw the damn thing, but just as I’m about to, a new call comes across the screen. Rylie. I answer on the first ring. “Did you find her?” she demands.
“No.” I hate that fucking word. Hate it even more as it scrapes out of my raw throat. “But I have a lead.”
“What do you need?”
Avalon, I think. Always Avalon. For now, I’ll settle for bloodshed and rage—using what we’d gotten from Sergio to make it happen. “If I give you a cell number, can you trace it even if it’s a burner?”
“If it’s on, yes,” she says. “Give it to me.” I repeat the number that Sergio had given us. It was one of the only valuable bits of info we’d managed to get from him, but it was a start. I turn and press my back against the now dented SUV as I listen to the sound of keys clicking in my ear. Across the parking lot, the doors to the police station open, and Abel comes out. He lifts his head, spots us, and begins to jog across the pavement.
When he reaches us, Rylie says, “The warehouse district,” she says. “It’s in the warehouse district.”
Then that’s where she’ll be, I think. If they were planning on chucking the burner, they would have done so by now. Whoever these people are, they have no reason to believe that they’re in any danger. Avalon isn’t like us—she doesn’t have the protection of our names.
Yet, I remind myself. She doesn’t have the protection of an Eastpoint heir name, yet. But she will. Soon.
I hang up without another word and turn a look on Braxton. “Get Troy on the move. We’ve got an address.”
“Where?” Abel asks.
My upper lip curls back as I lift my head and meet his eyes. “The warehouse district.”
Shock echoes across his features right before his brows lower and his hands ball into fists. “Those bastards,” he snarls.
“We don’t know if it’s all of them,” I say. Just the fact that one of our fathers—probably mine—is responsible for this makes my vision bleed red.
“It doesn’t matter,” Braxton says. “Our first priority is getting her back.”
I nod and the three of us part, moving to get into the SUV. As soon as I’m in the driver’s seat, though, I can’t help but feel an explosive swell of fury. My fingers squeeze over the steering w
heel, the leather creaking, threatening to break.
Before this thing is over, there will be blood. I’m already a killer. So is my queen. We have nothing left of our souls to lose. Only each other. And I’m not willing to let that happen. Not now. Not ever.
46
Avalon
The pain wakes me up. The soreness in my limbs is one thing, but my shoulder is now on fucking fire, and every breath I take makes my chest feel like someone’s standing on it. I crack my eyes open to see Ace standing before me, regarding me thoughtfully.
“How long was I out?” I rasp.
“Few minutes, no more,” he replies, turning and pacing across the room to the table stationed at the side. I'm not a fucking idiot. I know what's coming. What I don't know is why. And that is the question that's dragging at the chambers of my mind. Not ‘what do they want?’ Not ‘how did they find me?’ Not even ‘who would do this?’—though, that, too, is a serious question I need to consider. But why? Why now? Why me? Why the theatrics?
He unrolls a bundle of cloth, and even from where I sit, it doesn't take perfect vision for me to see the glint of metal instruments tucked into its pockets. Torture tools, far worse than the fists and knife I’d already taken. He lifts a small, slender blade out of its sheath. A scalpel—medical grade. I release a low whistle through my teeth as he approaches me with it. My heartbeat picks up. My shoulder burns with each movement I make, but I can’t not watch him. I don’t trust him.
“You must have some serious backing to get nice tools like that,” I say lightly.
A dark brown brow lifts, and without a word, he leans down and touches the end of the sharp instrument to the corner of my jaw. I freeze as the blade presses into my skin, past the subcutaneous layers, until I feel liquid slipping down the side of my neck. Blood. He grins and drags it forward. Unconsciously, I clench my teeth and have to work to keep the exacerbated pain that twinges from showing in my expression as he continues his cutting path until he stops just before my chin and lifts the blade away.
"You've got a smart mouth," he replies after a moment as I feel more liquid dripping slowly from the cut down under my jawline to my neck and onto my collarbone. "I wonder if you'll manage to keep it up like you did with Robert."
I lift my head and meet his gaze straight on. "Only one way to find out," I say, but with him, my words are not nearly as confident. Van boy—Robert—was easy to fuck with, easy to manipulate. He let his anger get the better of him, but it won’t be the same for Ace.
Another small smile curves Ace’s lips, and he looks down to his blood-stained scalpel before he nods. "You're right. Let's get started, shall we?"
He takes a step back and turns towards the table, setting the scalpel down and perusing the rest of his satchel. "I find it interesting, you know," he calls back as his hands play over the instruments at his disposal.
My jaw twinges every time a muscle jumps in my face. I part my lips, and it aches. I inhale and more blood slips across my skin. Oh, he'll pay for this. Of that, I have no doubt. It's only a matter of time. A wicked, vile creature forms in my chest, curling like a snake preparing to strike. I watch him through slitted eyes.
"What's that?" I prompt as he hums to himself, lifting a leather-looking binding.
Without looking at me, he strides around the back of my chair. He begins untying my hands from the arms of the chair. Tingles race beneath my skin. I gasp in pain as he yanks them straight out and back, wrapping them around the back of the chair now. I grunt as I double over. My shoulders jump and pain shoots down my arms. Breathing through my nose, I withstand the agony as my wrists are pressed more firmly together, and something hard and leathery is wrapped around them and tightened until I’m completely immobile and my chest is thrust out uncomfortably.
"When I look at you, all I see is a smart-mouthed little brat," the man finally replies, "but you must have done something to earn this."
"Yeah?" I grit out as he drops my arms, and though they begin to grow tingly from lack of circulation, they don't hurt quite so much anymore. I try not to think about it because I know it won't last. "And who exactly thinks I've earned this?" I spit out.
He chuckles darkly as he re-circles my chair to stand before me with his arms crossed. He shakes his head and tsks at me. "You seem like an intelligent girl. You should know that's not how this works."
"No?" I say through gritted teeth. Fuck, my arms hurt now. It feels wrong to have them bent at such an odd angle. Every time I clench my jaw, more blood slips down my neck. My breaths come in short pants. Sweat begins to collect at the base of my skull and slips down over my spine. "You're planning on killing me," I say.
He doesn't even deny it. "Yes."
"Then, why this?" I jerk my chin up and down. "Do you get off on it? Is it your particular kink? You need to tie your girlfriends up to get hard? I’m not judging. Bondage isn’t really my thing, but I think it all depends on the people you’re with. I’d totally let my boyfriend tie me up,” I say. I can just picture it now. I bet Dean would enjoy that. Tying me to the headboard of his four-poster bed and fucking me long and hard. Or maybe the opposite—me tying him down and riding his face until I come a few dozen times. “You, on the other hand,” I keep going. “Not really my type. So, what’s the safe word?”
His smile dips, and his arms unfold. "That's not very nice, you know," he says, turning away. My chest rises and falls as I track his movements. Ace strides back across the cold, barren room to the far wall—a brick thing with a spout at the bottom. He lifts a regular, garden variety water hose and then unwraps it from its reel before turning the spigot valve. Then he pivots back and begins dragging the end towards me, dripping water all over the concrete floor. I realize why a moment later, when I spot a drain a few feet away. I’d been a little too focused on the beating I’d been getting earlier to notice.
My breathing picks up, but I carefully press my lips together as I glare at him. He lifts a towel from the table and continues towards me. "Take a deep breath," he says. "It makes it easier the longer you can hold it. Don't worry, no need for you to count—I’ll do it.”
I bare my teeth as he tosses the towel over my face and reaches into my hair with his now free hand, yanking my head back. I don't even have time to take the breath he suggested when cold-ass water hits the towel over my face and quickly seeps through. It hits my mouth, and as I gasp and struggle against my bindings, I choke. Dark gray fabric covers my eyes. The fibers of the towel suck into my mouth as I try to catch my breath, but nothing. No air comes. Just water. Gushes and gushes of water. In my mouth. Over my eyes. Up my nose. Until black dots dance in front of my vision. Until I swear to God, I can taste the ocean in my nostrils.
Just when I think I'm about to pass out, the water stops, and the towel is pulled away from my face as my hair is released. I choke, coughing up water as I gag. My vision is a blurry, watery mess, but I see it when Ace steps in front of me again and bends down, the hose grasped in one hand and the towel in the other. His face is placid. He looks calm. Anyone else looking upon his face might see nothing but a serene man who could be thinking of anything—the weather, what he wants in his coffee, or even what he's planning to make for dinner. I lean over, ignoring the agony in my arms and more water comes pouring out of my mouth straight into my lap.
"I can't say who hired me," he begins. "I hope you understand, but I can't take that chance. I will say, however, that my employer didn't particularly care if you suffered or not."
"Oh?" I cough again. "Then you do get off on it, is what you're saying?"
"No," he answers, standing up to his full height. Water splashes my legs, soaking into my jeans. My jawline fucking burns. "Someone else wanted you to suffer before you died," he tells me with a curious lilt to his tone.
"If you're not going to fucking tell me, then get on with it," I growl.
"Well, I'm debating," he states, and when I jerk my head up to glare at him, ignoring the sharp stabbing pains throughout my body, I rea
lize he really is. His brows pucker as he looks down at me. His lips twist back and forth as he contemplates.
I groan and lean my head back, sucking in lungfuls of air as I wait for him to make up his goddamn mind. Whether he tells me or not won't matter much if Dean doesn't hurry his ass up. Nothing will matter if I'm dead.
"See, I can't quite understand it," he says finally, bending back down. Cold eyes rove over my face as if he's trying to piece together a difficult puzzle.
I cough once more. "Oh, what's that?" I ask sardonically.
"What mother could hate her child so much to want this," he answers.
My body stills as that new information seeps into my brain. My mind whirls, and before a thought can fully form, a laugh bursts from my lips. My chest shakes. My head aches. But more of it pours from me. One laugh after another until my whole body is rattling against the chair.
"She put you up to this?" I ask without really expecting an answer. "She wanted you to make me suffer before you killed me?" This is just too fucking funny. Tears leak from my eyes, streaking down the sides of my face over my cheeks and mixing with my drying blood as I toss my head back and forth. Of all of the people in this fucked up, godforsaken world … it would be her.
Every laugh shoots spikes of pain through my forehead, but I can't seem to stop. "What did she pay you with?" I bark out. "Loose pussy?" Something fractures in my chest. The cage around that wicked creature inside. Her doors are blown completely off. There's nothing holding her back anymore.
"Seriously," I manage to choke out. "This is … how did she pay you?" I ask. "No, don't tell me," I say when he opens his mouth, his brows scrunched in confusion—at my reaction, no doubt. "I can guess." She fucked them or promised them drugs. She must have a new dealer or something because there's no fucking way she can afford to pay these fuckers to torture me. The fact that she would, though, now that is believable. Shocking. Unexpected and yet … not.