“Be safe, Swan. Come back to me.” He releases my hand and sweeps out of the room without waiting for a response. Garrett’s jaw is tight, but he leaves too, not hanging around to make a big declaration. I breathe shallowly, facing Wyatt. I know he’d rather I hid in the background, that I was some sweet little submissive he can cage to keep safe, but this is my fight.
“We can’t run from this,” I say stoically, shoving down all of my own fears to placate his. I’ve known for a while that the time is coming to face Fredrick, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Wyatt sighs, striding towards the door.
“Can’t you ever do as you’re told?”
“If that’s what you wanted, you should have picked a different girl to fall in love with.” I turn on my heels, watching his back tense up. There’s a powerful shift of muscle beneath his shirt, as if he’s struggling to reign back a monster living within his skin. Bracing a hand on the door, Wyatt glances back at me, his hair flicking forward.
“I really had no choice in the matter.”
I suck in a harsh breath, and he leaves. Rushing to remain by his side, we slow as we enter the main lobby. Nothing appears out of place, students flirting with the few patrons they have left or each other. After an unsuccessful night, some have chosen to find solace in each other, making out by the grandfather clock or straddling on the stairs.
Wyatt bypasses the staircase leading to Axel’s wing. I glance up, nibbling on my bottom lip in an effort to calm myself. Dax and Gare will have that side covered, and nothing bad will happen to Axel.
We pass the frat-style living area, games room, and kitchen, taking the set of stairs across the other side of the mansion. This is where theother guests rooms are, and presumably where Hux will be entertaining Warren. I shudder at the thought, but urgency pushes me forward. We don’t need Hux to seduce the chief of police anymore; Fredrick is right here.
Wyatt is a man on a mission, his face set like stone. He whips open each door, revealing the room beyond. Most are empty, some occupied, to which he receives a round of harsh cursing. Wyatt does care, striding onto the next while I mutter apologies and close the doors again after a good look that Hux isn’t present. Some images will never be scrubbed from my brain after tonight.
Somewhere along the way, I find my hand in his. I’m not sure who initiated it, a mutual desire for comfort and a way for him to drag me along. We’re nearing the end of the hallway, another set of stairs apparent in a left alcove. These ones aren’t as wide, but just as grand. Cast iron railings and marble flooring, the smudge of a dirty man’s footprint on the bottom step. I share an apprehensive look with Wyatt.
Suddenly, a door bangs open beside us. I stifle a scream as a very disheveled, pale Huxley stands there, his chest heaving. His blond waves are wild from having fingers combed through them, his pupils blown wide, and his shirt open. His pants are firmly buttoned.
“I got it,” Hux breathes, his voice not quite his own. I reach for him instinctively, but his focus is on Wyatt. The leader who sent him on a mission, and now he’s ready to report back. Producing a wrinkled piece of paper, the edge torn hastily at an angle, there’s an address scribbled on it. “Fredrick’s place. It’s a witness protection hub, which is why Thiago couldn’t find it. The bastard is pretending he’s scared of the other inmates, all the while he’s working with them.” Wyatt takes the paper from Hux and pats his arm, his head hanging slightly.
“The bastard is here. Thiago caught him on the ballroom cam.” I didn’t think Hux could turn paler, but he manages it. I use the moment’s distraction to peek beyond Hux’s frame and into the room. The bedsheets are a ruffled mess, but only because Warren Briggs is lying on the covers. There’s a red mark blooming along his cheekbone, like he’s been hit.
“Did you beat him up?” I gasp.
“Well, I wasn’t going to fuck him?!” Hux says incredulously. “I justneeded to get him upstairs to knock him out so I could access his phone. The trickiest bit was prying his eyes open for his face ID.”
“I thought the plan was to drug his whiskey?” Wyatt raises a brow. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Of course, he was in on this.
“It wasn’t working quick enough. He almost got his tongue in my mouth.” Hux shrugs and steps into the hallway, closing the door to block my view. Wyatt exhales sharply, his fists clenched at his side. But before he can say whatever’s brewing in that dangerous head of his, a new sound cuts through the air. A violent one from the floor above us, as if something has been smashed.
Wyatt and Hux both freeze, but only for a split second before they’re running up the stairs to our left. I have to race to catch up, half hearing a whispered growl from Huxley asking why I’m here. I push aside my exasperation, focusing on the hammering of my heart trying to leap out of my chest.
At first glance, the third-floor hallway appears empty, but then we hear raised, angry voices seeping through the crack in the door at the end.
“Sharon’s bedroom,” Huxley says grimly. I don’t want to know how he knows that. Wyatt doesn’t hesitate. His long legs eat up the distance, his body thrumming with lethal tension. Huxley is a step behind him, his expression unreadable, while I push forward, ignoring the instinct screaming at me to slow down. For us all to not run into this, fists first.
Wyatt throws the door wide, but our presence goes unnoticed. The room is as lavish as I’d expect from Sharon. Deep red drapes, a four-poster bed with gold trim, a vanity cluttered with expensive perfume bottles. Through a set of stained glass doors, figures jerk and shout from the balcony.
The display is jaded by the colored glass, but we creep forward, catching Sharon’s slender form holding her own against a man towering over her. His back is to us, but he’s tall, broad, and dressed in a dark suit that fits just a little too stiffly. His fingers are wrapped tight around her wrist.
“Let go, you bastard!” she snarls, twisting violently. Something gleams between them, caught in a game of tug-of-war. I squint to see what it is—the flash of metal catching the moonlight. Whatever it is, Sharon grits herteeth, digging her heels into the floor as she struggles to twist it free.
“Give me the drive,” her attacker jerks her closer, his voice dangerously low. Wyatt stiffens in my peripheral.
“Go to hell,” Sharon hisses back, wrenching herself sideways. I can see what’s coming, like a scene from a movie that has me stepping into Huxley’s side and my hand curling around his bicep.
“You first,” a low growl sounds, and he shoves her chest, ripping the flash drive free at the last moment. Sharon’s eyes go wide, her body pitching backward. For a split second, she flails, trying to grasp onto something, anything. Then she’s gone. Her scream echoes, shrill and raw, before it cuts off with a sickening thud far below.
A breath of stillness follows, horrified and thick. My fingers start to tremble against Huxley’s shirt fabric, his body twisting to draw me in. Tilting his head to my ear, he simply breathes. In, out. A simple command to mimic the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. Wyatt’s hand touches my back, stroking absentmindedly.
I don’t care for Sharon, but to see and hear a life taken right in front of me is jarring.
The balcony door is pushed open, the shadow of the tall man stepping through. He stops in his tracks at the sight of us. Wyatt’s hand on my back tightens, and my blood runs cold. That distant memory I couldn’t unlock in the ballroom slams into me. A tailored suit, dark brown with a crisp white shirt. He’s older, his hair more salt than pepper, and there’s a stiffness to the way he holds himself. A rigidness and a sneer I’ve rarely seen.
For a moment, there’s only stunned silence. It's not Fredrick. Not my real father, but my adoptive one.
