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“Kelly keeps a guy on call. I’m all stitched up. Good as new. He gave me a tetanus shot and everything.”
He’s trying to keep me calm. And because it’s Trap, because I know his voice, because I’m used to listening and doing what he says, it works. But I have to ask, “Kelly? And his man?”
“They’re fine. I got the worst of it.”
“A— and Leo?”
Trap’s jaw tightens. He juts his chin toward the back of the van. “He’s back there. And you need to know—he’s high as a kite.”
Of course he is. My blood steams in my veins.
Leo is the reason Trap got shot tonight. Braiden and his men could have died up there in Philly. I could have lost Trap forever. All because my brother is in the Herzogs’ pockets.
I’m not even thinking. My hands are on the back of the van, ready to turn the handle, to yank open the door and get my fingers around Leo’s neck. But Trap stops me with a single low word: “Princess!”
I stare at him, blinking.
He nods toward the warehouse proper. “You’ve got a room ready?”
“Yes, but—”
“Get the door open. The sun’ll be up in half an hour. We don’t need any random clients seeing him. Knowing what’s going on.”
He’s right, of course. Freeport business is conducted 24/7/365. Leo must be hidden from freeport clients and staff alike. But my palms itch as I use my employee ID to open the door from the loading dock.
Trap planned big when he built the warehouse. There are six stories underground, each equipped with a dozen state-of-the-art, climate-controlled, electronics-shielded galleries. Freeport clients can store anything on the premises—we’re a strictly don’t-ask-don’t-tell enterprise. Each gallery is a safe deposit box the size of a shipping container, protected by retina scans, fingerprint biometrics, and voice activation.
I told Trap I didn’t want him involved in the gallery I created for Leo. I didn’t want Trap to see the gynecological exam table I ordered, paying nearly three times the cost for overnight delivery. I didn’t want to watch him speculate about the stainless-steel stirrups. I didn’t want him to think about hard metal cuffs sawing into wrists and ankles, about blinding lights left on around the clock, about a cheap plastic bucket waiting to be filled with piss and shit.
I know all of that.
Ilivedall of that.
But I wanted to spare Trap as long as I possibly could.
I press my forehead against the electronic reader, opening my eyes wide for the laser scan. I roll my fingertips across the sensitive pad. I swallow hard and speak my name, trying to enunciate over the pounding of my heart: “Alix Key.”
A lock opens deep inside the door. I set my palm against the inches-thick steel. It’s so perfectly weighted that I barely need to flex my wrist to make it swing open.
The gallery is an exact replica of Klaus Herzog’s Holding Room where I was chained for ninety days. Ninety days of rape. Ninety days of torture. Ninety days as a prologue to three long years.
All because Leo couldn’t stay clean. Because my brother needed drugs. Because my twin sold me to make good on his own debt.
My gallery is pristine. Freeport maintenance staff bolted my table to the floor, asking no questions because Trap requires absolute loyalty. I tested the soundproofing myself, screaming as loud as I could while an Oscar-award-winning sound engineer waited outside with a decibel meter. I panted for nearly an hour behind the closed, locked door, doing my best to approximate hyperventilation while testing the air handling system.
Everything’s ready.
Everything’s waiting.
I know time is of the essence. We need to get Leo down here. We need to get the van out of the loading dock. We need to finish our transaction before anyone stumbles on what we’ve done.
But I linger in the doorway, my hand on the light switch. It’s not too late. I can still change my mind. Trap and I haven’t done anything—yet—that we can’t take back.
Tomorrow, I won’t be able to say the same. Or the next day. Or the one after that.
Leo’s going to detox here. Alone. Unaided. No doctors or group therapy or pharmaceutical support.
Maybe it will kill him.
