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"Once," he said. "When we were trying to get Hassan out the first time."
I nodded, remembering that cataclysmic night. It seemed like a lifetime ago, yet the memories were as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. The desperate drive across town, the frantic scramble to get Hassan out of the den of snakes he'd been thrust into...it all came rushing back. Not that we had found him at the Den. Still, I couldn’t believe he had come here of his own volition, when it was a place where such bad things had happened.
In a strange twist of fate, Bash had inherited everything Jez had ever fought him for. The Devils–Jez’s gang–were no more.
And the Den was ours.
No matter how much we didn’t want it.
We stepped out of the car, our boots crunching on the gravel that lined the entrance of the Den. We shared a glance, tension heavy in the air, before pushing through the rusted metal doors. The interior was just as I remembered–grimy and dark, forgotten by time and ignored by progress.
Zane looked around, his eyes wide in surprise. "Doesn't look like much," he commented softly, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
I shrugged. "It's not meant to."
I could hear the vague sound of someone whimpering, and it brought back all kinds of ugly memories. Grown men weeping, begging…not right now, but in the past, in that same awful room. Hassan had brought his attacker to the same place where he had been attacked years and years ago.
Dude was fucked up.
Of course, if I was being honest with myself, we all needed therapy. Him more than me.
“Back here,” I murmured, gesturing for Zane to follow me. I tried to keep my cool as we walked toward the rusted out door, my stomach dropping as I opened it, wondering what I would find on the other side.
Hassan stood on the other side, looking a little worse for wear. His face was bruised, his lip swollen and still a bit bloody, his clothes dusty from being thrown to the ground. Yet, he was standing stall, his eyes hard as steel.
I’d never really seen him like this.
Looking…tough.
And I wasn’t sure if I liked it.
I clapped him on the shoulder as I approached, my gaze flicking towards the man tied to the chair in front of him. "Who's this?" I asked.
Hassan flicked a glance at the unconscious man slumped in the chair, looking more annoyed than anything else. "Some lackey from De Luca's crew," he said. His voice was rough, stripped raw from whatever had transpired before Zane and I arrived. “Had this shithead followin' me around town.”
"Did you get anything out of him?" Zane asked, stepping closer to inspect the man.
"Nothing useful," Hassan replied with a grunt. He ran his fingers over his bruised cheekbone, wincing slightly as he touched the tender area. "Bastard wouldn't open his mouth."
Zane crossed his arms in front of his chest. "What a surprise," he said. "You can be...persuasive."
Hassan chuckled, a harsh sound that echoed in the cavernous room. "Let's see if you can do any better, then."
Zane looked at me then, already fixated on the task at hand. I would be happy to do this, but there was something so sexy about Zane taking charge, giving in to this side of himself. I gave him a nod, stepping back to give him space as he crouched down in front of the man. "Let me know if you need help."
Zane cracked his knuckles. "I won't. Wake up," he said, his voice echoing in the silence. "Did you knock him out twice?"
"Yeah, once when I dragged him into the van and once when I dragged him in here," Hassan said. "He wouldn't let me move him otherwise."
Zane silently nodded, his eyes on the unconscious man. The gritty warehouse seemed to draw in a collective breath as he reached out and slapped the man sharply across the face. There was something about his cool, clinical demeanor that gave me chills.
I was just as threatened as I was turned on.
That was a very potent combination for me.
"Bloody hell," I muttered from behind, but I knew there was a spark of excitement in my voice. A part of me revelled in the rush–in the game. Zane was definitely good at shaking things up.
The thug grunted in pain, his eyelids fluttering open revealing a pair of glassy, disoriented eyes. He made a feeble attempt to break free from his restraints, his wrists chafing against the crude rope.
