Page 52 of Heist in Paradise

Kane licked his lips as his eyes swiveled over each of us. He couldn’t seem to look directly at the tunnel, as if it would somehow seal his fate. It probably would. “We call this d-downstairs,” Kane said with a timid stammer. “He k-keeps them here. They never see the inside of the mansion.”

“Any alarms?”

Kane trembled and shook his head frantically. He blanched when Madoc stepped toward him. “N-No, I swear. It’s empty right now. I haven’t—I was supposed to—shit.”

“Right now,” I repeated in a daze. Ignoring the gun now at my back, I stood in front of Kane. “How often does this happen?”

Kane blinked at me. He was becoming too fear-drugged, his eyes watery and unfocused. “There’s a new shipment every month.”

Shipment. Like they were nothing but product. Tools. Toys.

Molly had been a toy. Reduced to nothing but a warm body. Did Kane rape her? I glanced over his body, like I would see evidence of Molly on him. He was leanly muscled, completely hairless, pale beneath the streaks of blood. He wasn’t very tall—in fact, they’d probably been the same height. Had Molly found him attractive?

We didn’t often talk about boys. Molly was a deeply private person, and the very topic of sex used to make her screechy and flustered. She wasn’t a virgin—I knew that much from her earlier diary entries—but I got the sense she didn’t really enjoy it. She didn’t crave it. The few times she’d noted had sated her curiosity enough that she didn’t want to keep exploring it. Whoever she ended up marrying would be regimented in their routine, a sex once-a-week type of deal.

I flinched back, directly into Jax’s feverishly hot body. The gun slotted over my shoulder, so I became the unwitting sniper. I couldn’t stop picturing it. Molly held down. Molly gagged. Molly drugged. Molly cracked open. I stared at Kane with refugee eyes, and the pictures changed, so I was seeing his body over hers, between her legs, rutting, forcing. Bile burned up my throat.

I felt Jax’s voice rumble through my body. “You first.”

Callum forced Kane into the tunnel, deliberately knocking him hard into the wall so he staggered with a pained cry that echoed. And echoed. This must be what Hell sounds like. I shuddered, and Jax pressed harder into my back, almost like a reflex. Silent support. His heart was still steady, but his anger was palpable. His body was taut and spring-loaded, and it made my lower belly clench in that new, unhinged way.

Damnit. I liked his violence.

It was drawing out my own violence almost tenderly, bringing to the surface my need to break and hurt. My fist curled at my side. If it weren’t for the valuable evidence against my chest, I’d probably be clawing out Kane’s eyes from his skull. I might just do it anyway.

After Callum went Madoc, slipping into the hellmouth like a shadow warden. Then Nate and Zola followed, and Ryle with his face turned down at his shoes, and then it was just Jax and me.

“I hate this,” I said miserably into the empty basement.

Strong hands turned me around. I stared unseeingly at Jax’s collarbones.

“Look at me.”

The firm command made me look up obediently. He was no longer smirking, his eyes intent as he searched my face. “Don’t disappear yet.”

I nodded, my head feeling too heavy for my shoulders. “I’ll try.”

“You can hit me again if you want.”

That made me smile. Damn him for that. “Thanks. I’ll keep that one in the bank.”

His hand grazed the back of my neck, squeezing it. It was too much—too intimate, too familiar, too everything—so I stepped back, putting some much-needed distance between us. His hand dropped away.

“I still hate you,” I said, because I needed to say it. I needed to keep the distance.

He smirked, but it looked tired. “You don’t lie as good as you cry.”

I glared at him. “Shut up.”

“You ready?”

I wasn’t. I nodded anyway.

The tunnel was empty when we walked in, the others already exploring whatever lurked ahead in the darkness. I could hear them, the acoustics making it obvious that we were in a long, cavernous place. Refusing to let my fear stall me, I marched determinedly ahead, Jax a solid presence behind me.

At the end, the tunnel split into opposite directions, which, at a glance, were mirror images of each other. Low ceiling, bulb lights, and doors. Dozens of doors, made of cold metal with little peephole windows like a supermax prison. On a whim, I turned left, away from the rest of the crew. At the first door, I arched onto my toes and looked through the mail slot window.

It was a prison cell. Worse, probably. If I could speak at all, I’d ask Jax if he’d had better conditions on the inside. In the dim light, I could just make out a single cot, a bare mattress, a bucket in the corner, a small, low table with little drawers that probably contained all sorts of nefarious things.