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As a lieutenant and a made man in the Maritime Syndicate, I should go straight to Brien, show him the video and the map. But what if he decided it was too dicey?
Twilight was his mate. How could I ask him to risk her?
But if I didn’t, I’d lose Eden…and our son.
Phone forgotten in my hand, I dug the heels of my palms into my eye sockets. For the first time ever, I considered lying to Brien.
My friend and primus.
The man who, while still a teenager himself, had befriended an angry, moody twenty-year-old and by believing in me—by trusting me—had taught me to believe and trust in myself.
Think, damn it.
One thing was clear. I’d do whatever it took to save Eden—and not because she carried my spawn, but because if I lost Eden, my world would go dark.
She was my priority. Compared to her safety, nothing else mattered.
Not my honor.
Not my position in the syndicate hierarchy.
Not even my long friendship with Brien.
Nothing.
Bringing my hands down, I eyed my phone. Maybe I could ask Cain to try again to track Eden’s phone? They might have forgotten to power it off after sending the texts.
Or would they know if we tried to track her? That might piss them off and make things worse. Plus, Cain would wonder why I was asking. If he got suspicious, he might go to Brien.
I couldn’t fuck this up. Eden’s life depended on it.
I tapped out a return text. Eden comes with me or no deal.
The message was marked as sent, but not delivered. So her phone was off.
The SOBs weren’t even giving me the chance to negotiate.
The claws dug deeper into my chest, squeezing the oxygen from my lungs. They’d already had Eden for over twenty-four hours. Were they keeping her in some musty, airless cell? Was she allowed to move freely, or had she been restrained?
Had they fed her? I recalled how she’d fainted that night in New York. Worse, had they fed from her despite the danger to her and the baby?
My fangs elongated. I growled and surged to my feet, angrily pacing the bedroom floor.
I grabbed my head.
Focus, damn it. If you lose it, you’ll just make things worse.
But if they’d fed from Eden, I wouldn’t just stake the bastards. I’d rip their goddamned limbs off and feed their bleeding remains to the sharks.
My phone buzzed. My heart leapt, but it was Cain, texting me to meet him and Brien in the war room ASAP.
I pulled on some clothes—a long-sleeved Henley, tactical pants, combat boots—and chugged a half-bottle of blood-wine. Nourishment to keep me going until I could spare the time to feed. The last thing I did before leaving my apartment was to slide a switchblade into my back pocket. My favorite dagger went into a pocket on the side of my thigh.
The war room was empty except for Brien’s PA. I eyed him, frowning. A thirty-something dhampir who’d been recommended to the syndicate by Brien’s friend Zoe Tremblay, Smythe didn’t have clearance to be the war room.
One look at my face, and he jumped to his feet. “Lieutenant.”
“What’re you doing here?” I demanded.
