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“They’re not here yet.” Hale’s voice isn’t as well controlled as it was on the phone half an hour ago. He straightens his jacket and stands directly in front of the man who was once his father’s trusted captain.
Leland’s gaze flickers to Hale’s unflinching one, then to Zaid and Lucas, who move to stand on either side of him, blocking the exits. He may be a mole, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t smart—his shoulders tense just slightly as he begins to realize that something is very wrong here. His expression remains totally relaxed, but his gaze darts around the room, checking for exits.
“Why did you do it, Leland?” Hale asks quietly. There’s rage simmering in his tone, but there’s something almost like a plea in it too. It’s the same question Damian asked about my father. The question that can eat a person up inside.
Why?
Leland turns sharply toward Hale, his jaw clenching. He has to know by now that he’s trapped, that Hale and the rest of us are on to him. He has to know it’s over.
But still, that doesn’t stop him from trying.
Leland makes a sharp move to the right, trying to duck between Zaid and Lucas. But they’re faster. Grabbing him by the arms, they hold his body tightly between them, pinning his arms behind his back as he grunts and struggles. Hale strides toward the three of them, his lips pressed into a thin line.
One, two, three.
His fist meets Leland’s face brutally, splitting the skin on his brow bone and on Hale’s knuckles, splattering them both with blood in a way that reminds me eerily of the night Damian died. Leland grunts in pain, and when Hale pauses for a moment, the older man struggles harder against Zaid and Lucas.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He’s breathing hard, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “If Damian were alive to see this—”
“Finish that sentence, and I’ll fucking kill you where you stand,” Hale says coldly, cutting him off. “If that’s what you want, keep talking. If you want to have a chance at living through this, don’t mention my father’s name again.”
Leland pales a little, but he glares at Hale. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I don’t know what you want.”
“Yes you do, you fucking traitor.” Hale jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Bring him downstairs.”
Ciro hands a key to Hale, then shifts to stand in front of me, shielding me with his body as the twins drag Leland down the hallway with Hale in the lead. He still usually avoids touching me, but as things have settled and solidified between me and Hale, I’ve sensed Ciro letting down his guard around me a little more.
“Do you want to stay up here?” he asks, gaze flickering down my body as if to assess whether I’m still okay. “It’s not gonna be pretty down there.”
I blink up at him, swallowing. I know he’s telling the truth. Whatever is about to happen downstairs is something no normal person would want to see. But what I’m beginning to understand is that I’m no longer a normal person. This has become my life, and these men can’t protect me from all of it, no matter how much they might want to.
They’re beautiful, dangerous, ruthless knights. All four of them have tried to protect me, to save me from the worst parts of the world.
But maybe I don’t need saving.
“I’ll come,” I say, keeping my voice steady and even.
“We need answers.” Ciro’s eyes narrow, the gray of his irises softening. “And Hale’s not going to stop until he gets them. You understand what that means.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. He knows I’m familiar enough with this world to understand what sometimes has to be done to enemies of the syndicate in dark, sound-proofed basements. He’s giving me one more chance to back away, one more chance to go back to the safety and the light.
But I’m not afraid of the darkness anymore.
“I’m ready,” I tell him, trying to slow my racing heart. I’m not trained for this kind of shit like they are, but I already know the importance of at least trying.
To my surprise, Ciro offers a hand, and I slip mine into his without hesitating. His is warm and solid, his palm rough against mine as he leads me down the hallway. We’re walking so close together that our clasped hands brush against the side of his thigh and my thigh. The smallest flicker of awareness rushes through me as he shows me to the dark steps, knowing that he holds my hand just as much for my sake as he does his own sake.
He’s drawing strength from me just as much as he’s giving it.
Hale may be the one who gives the order to go or stop, but Ciro is the one who’ll do the dirty work.
The torture.
The Ciro I know, the one I’m falling in love with, is disappearing further and further into this other version of himself. The one that’s nothing but blank emptiness and cold efficiency. But the sweet, gentle man I know is still in there somewhere—a small squeeze of his hand reassures me of that.
“This way,” he murmurs, showing me to a door.
