AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Do we know who else is involved?” Sebastian asks from his corner by the window—his question prompting me to look up. I’m still not sure how in he is—his feelings always running hot and cold. We had last night, but with Seb, every day is a crap shoot. His face is stoic, but his eyes blaze like the blue of a roaring fire.
Lev pulls out his computer and brings up an image on his screen. He looks unsettled. “Senator Baker. I don’t have all the details yet, but Colt uncovered a few more names, and the Senator’s was in the latest batch,” he explains, working hard to keep his composure.
Whereas Wyatt looks murderous, Lev seems broken. Not only is Ariah gone, but Owen’s been taken and is being tortured again. We can only hope he’s not suffering a fate as horrific as the last time he was captured.
“Elise said he wasn’t involved. He was a misdirect,” I state, remembering her words vividly. “A convenient distraction, you idiots believed. You fools were so focused on a man coming for your seats you missed all the signs in front of you.”
Sighing, Owen’s father speaks up. “It’s obvious she wasn’t as in charge as she, or we, thought. Someone crossed her, as well. We’re still playing catch up, and my son’s life hangs in the balance because of our fuck up,” he confesses, running his hands through his disheveled hair.
I grumble that it’s because they refused to listen. It’s like the bitch Elise said, they can’t see past their noses, and their high-handed actions have essentially tied our hands.
“Lev, how many more names have you uncovered?” his father inquires.
“We’re up to over one hundred names—many of which we already have downstairs. The others have fled after hearing about Elise, or they’re dead,” he explains.
My father’s brows knit together. He’s trying to work out if he should expel the resources to track down families who’ve escaped our clutches now or leave them for a later date. “How many more names do you have to decrypt?”
Lev shakes his head, “We won’t know until the scraper finishes running. It could be ten or thousands.”
Worry lines my dad’s usually youthful features, aging him at least thirty years. I’d be a dick if I pointed out, once again, if he had listened, but I recognize now isn’t the place.
“Do more digging into the Senator. I want to know the first time he blinked after being born,” my father orders.
We review the final details and our strategy for finding Owen over the next three hours before the Council dismisses us.
Once we step outside, I reiterate, “I’m not sleeping with that cunt.”
“No one’s fucking that bitch. We won’t betray Ariah. She’ll be back,” Wyatt states, stepping in front of us, halting our movements. “And if I find out any of you put so much as a finger on a girl, I’ll use one of O’s girls and chop off the offending limb. We belong to Ariah, and she belongs to us. We don’t survive this otherwise,” he seethes before storming off yet again.
He has one thing perfectly correct. There is no us without her.
2
WYATT
I sit in silence, staring at the once-blank, midnight-black wall, now painted—a panoramic-sized piece of an angel whose vast silvery wings expand the width of the wall. The detail is so realistic. Each feather is painted to perfection as she flies from the burning war-torn land to charge into the fight. But it’s not the realism of the armor or the singe to the tips of her wings from the fire that captivate me. It’s the likeness to Ariah that she embodies that makes me immovable—down to the smattering of freckles. She’s breathtaking, holding a sword with a handle made to look like a phoenix. The symbolism isn’t lost on me. I don’t know how long Owen worked on this. I don’t even know if Ariah knows just how gifted he is—that he’s designed every one of our tattoos.
Why did you go off by yourself? I want to know so badly what could have pushed him to take that type of risk. We rarely did anything solo and without telling anyone.
Standing from the edge of his couch, I walk toward the tempered glass-encased display and examine which other knife is gone, hoping it’s not one of his absolute favorites. I know Lola’s upstairs under his pillow. He’s going to be glad he left her behind. Lizzie’s here, and so are Thelma and Louise. I see Quinn, Bonny, and Mary off to the left, but Grace is missing. He’ll be pissed if his hunting knife doesn’t make it back here, but he would probably burn the world to the ground if they had Lola. A small smile momentarily forms as I remember the times he’s used that knife on Riri and the smug look on his face the day he retired her.
Owen, you fucking idiot. The minute he’s back, I’m kicking his ass for being so stupid.
Growling, I turn and look around the room for anything that can point me in the direction of where he went. Any-goddamn-thing.
The black of the walls contrasts the stainless steel cabinets and examining table. He’s rarely used this space as of late—the majority of our interrogations have taken place at the Fraternitas in the Tombs.
Pamela. She was the last person on his table. I almost wish she was still alive. Knowing everything we do now, she had a shit ton more knowledge than she let on. There was the locker incident and her missing finger—she knew who was behind this.
My eyes land on his laptop. I’m at his desk in two strides and opening it. The lock screen and a picture of Ariah’s sleeping form on his bed with one leg sticking out from under his black comforter appears, and I have to close my eyes.
She’s gone.
My brain keeps trying to argue with the fact that she left me and the fact that it’s best that she did. I’m so angry I have to release the laptop for fear of cracking the screen. Why would she leave without talking to us first—to me first? How could she ever believe we’d choose Samantha over her? All of these fucking questions. I need to punch something. Preferably the person who robbed us of spending graduation together and celebrating her officially being our Chosen. Instead, graduation has come and gone, and we’re forced to be betrothed to a witch.
Pacing, I try to calm myself down. It’s because Wes said, I reason. It’s believable that Wes might play her, but even then. After everything—how could she not see?
This isn’t your space. That thought is the only thing preventing me from slamming a chair through the window.
