Then I feel a sudden, sharp snap. My eyes fly open, a flicker of desperate hope surging through me so fast it makes my head spin. I don’t dare move. I don’t even breathe for a long second, terrified that if I do, the moment will vanish and I’ll realise it was just my imagination.
I test it carefully… a tiny wriggle of my wrists. The rope gives. With a couple of harder tugs, my hands come free completely. The thick coil falls loose with a soft thud against the metal floor.
I laugh into the cold floor, the sound weak and broken but real. “Oh,thankfuck…”
I pull at the rest of the rope with my newly freed hands until my arms are completely loose. Another shaky laugh escapes me as I bring my hands around to my face. My wrists are raw and red, skin rubbed bloody in places, but I don’t care. I reposition myself, using the chair for leverage, and after a few weak, trembling attempts I manage to push myself up until I’m standing on unsteady legs. I laugh again, the sound shaky as my whole body trembles with the effort.
I grab the now-loose leg of the chair and yank it free with a grunt. It’s heavy in my hands, solid metal. I hope I’ll have enough strength left to swing it hard enough to crack it across Finn’s head. That bastard deserves somuch worse, but right now it’s him or me. And I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight.
I pick the chair back up and carefully position the remaining leg underneath it, hoping it’ll hold my weight if I stay steady enough. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples.
Then I hear the distant whine of the jet ski cutting through the waves, growing louder as it approaches the boat.Oh crap. Panic surges through me. I scramble for the rope, hands shaking, and try my best to throw it back around myself and the chair. The leg nearly gives out from under me, but I still and it holds. I wrap the rope behind my back as tightly as I can manage, hoping it looks convincing from the front. Finn doesn’t usually look too closely; he’s too busy taunting and bragging. I hold my breath, trying to steady the wild hammering of my heart, andprayhe doesn’t notice anything different.
I’m trying to look as broken and defeated as possible, when I hear the jet ski engine cut off outside. Heavy footsteps stomp down the metal stairs. Three locks click and clank, then the door swings open. Finn storms in, manic energy rolling off him in waves. His eyes are too wide, pupils blown, hair wild from the sea wind. He’s waving a gun around like it’s a toy, gesturing wildly as he paces the small room.
“All of them!” he shouts, voice cracking with rage. “Every single one of myfuckingpropertiesis up in flames across the city! My safehouses, my rentals, every littleplace I was making income from… gone!Poof! Burned to the fucking ground!”
He laughs, unamused, high and unhinged, then suddenly stops in front of me and jabs the cold barrel of the gun hard against my temple. I flinch, breath catching.
He leans in close, breath hot and sour against my face, laughing like a psycho right into my eyes. “And you know the best part, little Christopher? It had to be Mr. Sinclair who did it.Hadto be. He’s throwing a tantrum because I took hisfavouritetoy.”
Finn pulls the gun back just enough to tap it against my forehead, still grinning that deranged grin. “I couldn’t find any information on who you are,” he continues, voice dropping into a rambling whisper. “Couldn’t even figure out your last name. But the way he’s been protecting you… holding your hand in public like some lovesick fool, destroyingallof my properties… and God knowswherethe fuck mybrothersare because I tried finding them, but they’ve gone dark…”
He pants, leaning down to my height, eyes wild. “That can only mean one thing… you must have been Mr. Sinclair’slittlefuckboy.”
He’s panting like a rabid dog now, spittle flying, face inches from mine. I swallow hard, throat dry and painful. I could laugh in his face. I could spit. I could shout. But I can’t. I have to wait for the right moment, when his back is turned, when he’s distracted.
Finn straightens up slightly, still waving the gun. “So why shouldn’t I put a bullet in yourightnow?”
My heart slams into my throat. Not like this.Not like this.I force my voice out, weak and shaky but quick. “You… you said you were gonnacallhim,right?”
Finn pauses, then grins wider, like I just reminded him of his favourite game. “Ah yes…genius…” He lowers the gun and places it on the table with a heavy clack, obviously thinking I’m still securely tied up. “Let the king watch his little toy boydiein front of him.”
He turns slightly, reaching for something on the shelf behind him.
My pulse thunders in my ears… this is it; I have to time this perfectly, or I’m dead.
Chapter Twenty-Two
~ Something Cracked ~
Soren
I’m exhausted, the kind that feels like it’s carved into my bones. We’ve been driving around the city all afternoon… me, Ray, Armen, and a handful of my most trusted guys… emptying and then burning every last one of Finn’s known properties. Safehouses, rentals, bolt-holes, even a couple of shitty little apartments he thought no one knew about. We moved like ghosts, discreet, no witnesses, no loose ends. The cops won’t trace it back to us; I’ve got captains on the force who make sure of that, if they even manage to figure it out. By the time we were done, Finn had nowhere left in this city to hide.
There’s a dark thrill in my chest at the thought. Good… that’s the least that psychotic little shit deserves. But underneath the satisfaction, a colder worry lingers. This was supposed to be a warning, a message:touch what’s mine and I’ll burn everything you have. I just hope it doesn’t push Finn over the edge. The man doesn’t seem to have a single screw left intact in his head. Who knows how he’ll react when he finds out.
At least it gave me an outlet for the rage that’s been eating me alive. For a few hours I could focus on something other than the gnawing fear that Kit might already be dead.
It’s late now when we finally pull back through the estate gates. I told Sam to call the second they heard anything from Finn, he claimed he’d be calling today, but we haven’t heard shit. The silence is worrying and infuriating in equal measure.
I shrug my jacket off the moment I step inside and hand it to Margo, one of the quiet housemaids. She gives me a small, sympathetic smile that reminds me of my late grandmother… soft, wordless, and efficient. She never bothers anyone, just does her job well. She takes Ray’s and Armen’s jackets too and scurries off.
“I need a fucking drink,” I mutter.
“Second that,” Armen says.
We head down the hall and take a left into the break room. I pause for half a second, eyes flicking to the pool table. The last time I was in here I had Kit pinned underneath me, his small body arching, his voice breaking as he moaned my name. He’d spoken, he’d touched me, he’d wrapped his legs around my waist, and I’d come too quick because of it. I shake the memory away before it can dig any deeper.
