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"So what's the celebration for?" I ask.

The girls step on stage, their gold lingerie sparkling beneath the spotlight as they're forced to dance for the eyes of the sick cunts in the audience. Their bodies are bruised, faces broken. Amora isn't there, and part of me is thankful because I wouldn't have been able to hold it together if she had been. I wouldn't have been able to stop myself from slaughtering every single fucking cunt in this place. I wouldn't have been able to stop the way my fingers would have torn every single fucking eyeball from their sockets just because they looked at her.

My leg bounces at the thought, body trembling as rage runs through my blood.

"I'm getting rid of the whores. They're going to The Hole. It's going to be excellent, new trials. New fights. A fuck tonne of blood." He licks his lips at the thought. "The viewers will pay more than ever before."

The Hole. I thought it had been a myth, a fucking fable that the older guards talked about. Adrian spoke about it once, said it was the worst thing he'd ever seen. Normally, only those who turn their back on The Order or betray them are sent there, but now he's sending girls, too.

My mind wanders to Amora. She's probably waiting for me to come back whilst I'm wasting my fucking time sitting here.

"You're sending women, Vincent? The Hole is meant for traitors and criminals. Not women," Adrian cuts in.

"I'll send whoever the fuck I want. Father might have made use of it for that, but not me. Besides, no one cares about watching traitors fight to the death. But they'll pay to watch women fight to survive. It'll be excellent."

The parlour goes quieter as another body joins the room. Our eyes turn to the door as a new bloke I've never seen before walks inside. The muscles in his arms bulge through his shirt. His long, black hair is tied into a ponytail hanging down his back, and his eyes are darker than I've ever seen. Whoever Vincent has employed will surely be worse than any of the other sick cunts in this place, I already know it.

"Ah! Drake, come join my executioners for a drink," Vincent calls out.

Drake bounds over, all 6'5 of him, as he sits himself beside me. He picks up the whiskey bottle, not bothering to get a glass, and begins to drain it. I catch Adrian's eye, whose thoughts are matching my own. Whoever this guy is, he's a fucking prick.

"Drake, meet Ace, he's my executioner." Vincent smirks as Drake holds his hand out for me to shake. "Ace, this is Drake. He'll be running things down in The Hole."

I stare at his hand in disgust, turning away without a word.

"What do you have planned for…this Hole?" Adrian asks, draining the rest of his drink.

"I've spent the last year having it prepared. New decor, new galleries for spectators. We'll make more money down there than we ever have selling women."

"So you plan to use it as what? Entertainment?"

"Exactly, old man. Entertainment. Because what could be more entertaining than watching someone break?" Vincent slides back in his seat, and I frown as I watch him wince when he puts pressure on his left side. His coat jacket shifts slightly, just enough to reveal a small red stain on his shirt.

"So boys, which girls do we enjoy fucking most? I've got my eye on the redhead." Drake says, his voice full of arrogance as the words slide from his tongue, forcing all of us to turn and meet his gaze.

"Ah, none of these whores are worthy. Not like my prize." Vincent stares directly at me as he speaks, and I raise a brow. Does he know? "Her moans are like your favourite song. Cunt like the warmest sun. But Drake, considering you're new, I'll let you take your pick on stage. Don't mind the mess they're in—they've already been broken in. We'll have a fresh group soon."

His words undo every ounce of restraint I've been holding back. I smash the glass on the table, knocking the chair to the floor as I storm from the table. I can't watch and listen to his shit. I can't sit and act like I'm okay with this anymore. Not whilst the girls who've spent weeks suffering dance for everyone's amusement. Not whilst Amora's probably torturing herself in her chambers.

I'm fucking done.

"Don't mind Ace, he's always craving attention. Pathetic, if you ask me." Vincent's voice is the last thing I hear as I storm out the parlour with only one place to go in mind. Jarrod's sprinting behind me, trying his best to keep up. I can hear Adrian, too, calling my name, but nothing registers. Nothing will, not till I've seen her.

"You're making a mistake," I hear Adrian say. "You're risking us all, Jax. Think about what you're doing."

I don't care what he says. I don't care about the risks. I need to see her. I need her eyes to ground me like she always has. I need to know she's okay.

The guard stands beside her door, my fingers not even hesitating as I tear the gun from my waistband and hold it to his head. My eyes search his, and all I see is fear. He's young, probably younger than Jarrod. His hands tremble as he holds them up, voice shaking. "Please don't."

Adrian grips my arm, pulling me aside and sliding his hand into his pocket to pull out a wad of cash. Thrusting it into the guard's chest, he says, "You never saw us. Got it? Now fuck off."

The guard doesn't even blink before he's sprinting down the hall.

Kicking open her door, I expect to see her on the balcony like she always is, but I'm met with a silence that slices deep into my core. Her bedsheets fixed, like they've never been slept in. The room completely empty. I storm inside, booting open the bathroom door, but she's not there.

She's not here.

"Where is she?" I growl, turning, eyes fixed on Jarrod.