“Which she won’t,” I say, knowing that with unwavering certainty.
“Or we can hide Reece somewhere and return for him. We could fake his death,” Beckett continues. I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
Reece swallows and turns his masked face in my direction. “Is it true? That The Divine One is your mother?”
“Apparently.” I can barely wrap my head around it myself.
“That won’t save you, you know,” he tells me, and his ominous words elicit a fresh round of goose bumps on my arms. “I have no idea what her end goal is, but it’s apparent that she lives and breathes this organization.”
“She doesn’t even believe in the damn religion,” Dom growls out, forking his fingers through his platinum-blond locks.
“She’s a psychopath, plain and simple,” Beckett agrees.
Silence blankets the air between us—the uncomfortable kind that grows fangs and claws, slicing and nipping at us. None of us can argue with Beckett’s assessment of her. Aria truly is a psychopath. My guys are, too, but somehow, she’s different. More calculated.
My guys kill to protect me.
She kills because she seems to enjoy it.
Or maybe it’s not the killing she enjoys but the power granted to her as The Divine One. She’s practically a god to these people. She decides who lives and who dies. I wonder if, once upon a time, she used to be normal. If she had dreams and hopes for the future.
I’ve seen power corrupt people before.
“We can’t just leave Reece to die,” I insist, my brain scattering in a thousand different directions, desperate to come up with a solution. Any solution.
Maybe I had the right idea when I suggested he hide in the ceiling. If he can get up there, and stay silent, then he might be able to remain hidden long enough to escape.
Before I can articulate the thought, however, I become aware of the sensation of eyes on the back of my head. Energy fires up my spine in a series of sporadic explosions, and I suck in a scorching breath.
Someone’s here.
Someone’s watching.
I immediately reach for my dagger, but my guys are already moving, stealthily slipping in front of me.
A ball of panic rises in the base of my throat.
“Show yourself,” I declare, grateful when my voice comes out steady.
Footsteps precede the masked figure as he exits the room directly to the right of us.
Zane pulls his arm back, preparing to throw his dagger, when the intruder says, “Stop! It’s me!”
“Doyle?” Dom’s brows form a knot in the center of his forehead.
Dom’s older brother removes his mask and allows it to hang limply at his side.
Doyle looks awful. Absolutely awful. He seems to have lost at least ten pounds since we last saw him, only a few days ago. His brown hair hangs in disheveled, greasy clumps on his head. Purplish smudges line both of his eyes, evidence that he hasn’t been sleeping, and his cheekbones stand out starkly.
Doyle sweeps his gaze over all of us before pausing on Reece, still disguised as a member of POP.
“I can help you,” Doyle tells us, his voice a rasp of sound.
Suspicion rakes its claws across Dom’s face. “Help us with what?” He keeps his voice nonchalant, as if we’re not attempting to do something damn near suicidal.
“I can get Reece out of here. I know a back door. Usually, it’s reserved for staff, but I can get us through.” Doyle glances in both directions, as if ensuring we’re still alone, before refocusing on us, his eyes laser sharp. “Are you coming?”
“Why should we trust you?” Dom demands.
