A sharp, angry one.
Not a scream.
Boca laughs. “There she is.”
I lift my head.
We are behind a warehouse, or what used to be one. The walls are painted a sun-faded turquoise that might have been cheerful twenty years ago. Now it flakes in patches, showing gray concrete underneath. Loading bays line the back. Two roll-updoors are open. Inside, shadows swallow metal shelving, stacked crates, old pallets, and plastic buckets full of white roses.
Rows and rows of them.
Pretty as a funeral.
Above one door, half the sign is missing, but I can still read part of it.
REYES FLORAL IMPORTS.
Reyes.
I tuck it away.
A plane roars overhead, louder this time, its shadow sliding across the pavement like a warning hand.
Good.
Let Shady think roads. I will think sound.
They haul me inside.
The temperature drops as soon as we cross the threshold. Cold air clings to my damp skin, raising goose bumps across my arms. The warehouse smells sweet and dead, roses and preservatives and old water. Buckets line the wall, white blooms bobbing in chemical water like they are waiting for brides, graves, or enemies.
I have played clubs that smelled worse.
That thought helps.
Not much.
They shove me into a chair in the middle of the floor and cut the zip tie from my ankles only to bind them to the chair legs.My hands stay trapped behind me. A new tie digs into the old burn around my wrists. I flex once, testing.
Too tight.
Boca catches the movement. “Don’t waste your energy.”
“Should I save it for your funeral?”
He grins. “You got jokes.”
“I’ve got range.”
The driver steps into the light.
Older than the others. Forties maybe. Heavy shoulders. Neat beard. Calm eyes. That scares me more than Boca’s little-boy cruelty. Mean men with no control are dangerous, but mean men with patience are worse.
He studies me like cargo.
“You know why you’re here, Lady Nyx?”
I lift my chin. “Because your mothers didn’t hug you enough?”
