It settles.
Lower.
Deeper.
Into something that doesn’t burn through and disappear, something that stays and builds and tightens the longer it sits there, turning over into something heavier than rage and harder to contain.
By the time the car door opens, there isn’t any space left for anything else.
The air inside the warehouse hits cold, carrying the scent of oil and metal, but it barely registers as more than pressure shifting around me as I walk in, the sound of our footsteps stretching out across the concrete.
Killian is there.
So is one of Christian’s men.
And the man in the chair lifts his head the second we step into the space, his expression tightening, then twisting into something sharper as he looks between us.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,” he says, the words too loud, too confident. “You’re starting something you can’t come back from.”
It passes through me without catching.
Because whatever this becomes, I’m not going back from it.
Christian steps forward first, his voice even, controlled, still trying to hold this inside something structured.
“Let’s keep this simple,” he says. “Where is she?”
The man scoffs, shifting slightly in the chair, testing the restraints like he still believes he has room to move inside this.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Christian doesn’t react.
“Lia,” he clarifies. “You know who we’re asking about.”
The man leans back as much as he can, his mouth curving into something that sits too close to amusement.
“I don’t know any Lia.”
Killian moves before the words finish settling, his fist connecting cleanly, snapping the man’s head to the side.
The sound carries.
The man laughs through it.
Blood gathering at his lip, his tongue dragging across it like it’s nothing.
“You drag me in here for some chick?” he says. “There’s plenty more out there.”
Killian hits him again.
Harder.
The chair shifts against the concrete.
“Watch your mouth,” Killian says.
The man spits blood to the side, still smiling.
