The answer?
Hell fucking yes.
“What if you’re wrong?” he says after a pause. “What if the underwear being there is a coincidence? I could roll up, tell the fellas I know about the trafficking, claim I want to get involved… and they’ll look at me like I’ve got an ass on my face. The shooting won’t take too long after that.”
“I’m not wrong,” I snarl.
“Because… instinct?”
“Think, think hard. When has my instinct ever been wrong? When?”
I struggle to keep my voice level. All I can think of is Celine in a place she doesn’t belong. People doing shit to her they’ve got no business doing.
He sighs. “You’ve got me there. Even the attack came out of nowhere. No amount of instinct could’ve saved you then.”
He’s not wrong.
“It’s up to you,” I tell him. “We can either do this subtly. You can check… if she’s not there, then we’ll search somewhere else. I can stay hidden. I can make my resurrection have some meaning. OrI’ll gear up right now and go in guns blazing. But if I get dropped, and she’snotthere, you need to find her. You need to save her.”
He stares bleakly at me. “You’ll die for thechanceyou can save her life?”
I turn away. He doesn’t even need to ask me that.
“I’ll do it,” he says after a pause. “You’re right. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
CHAPTER 25
CELINE
They keep us in a large stone room with a small room off to the side. It’s been a few hours since they forced me down here, and Maria tells me in a low whisper that the side room is used for the pleasure of the kidnappers. Every so often, they come by and drag some poor woman or girl in there, she says, and they…
I sit against the wall, my knees to my chest, trying not to succumb to sadness and not to feel sorry for myself. Some of these women–like Maria, whose dislocated finger I set and bound with a strip of torn cloth from my shirt–have been here for months. Others were only here for a couple of days before the men brought buyers down to purchase them.
The whole thing is an ugly, sickening mess.
I’ve done what I can with what little I have to help them. But most of them need more than physical help. They stare shellshocked into space, reliving whatever has happened to them, sinking into their personal hells.
The more time that passes, the more certain I am…
Damian isn’t a Beast. These men are–and they deserve everything Damian has planned for them.
We all cringe away when the door opens, the same man from before striding into the room, the one with the scar on his chin. Some scars make me want a man–well, Damian–make me obsess over him, make me want to care for him and be with him. This one floods me with terror.
He hefts a rifle, not a pistol this time, aiming it at us casually. From the way the women cringe and shift back, it seems like this is a regular occurrence. They’re scared, sure, but it’s not like this is new.
“There she is,” he barks, laughing harshly.
Two more men walk into the room, one wearing a leather jacket. For a chilling second, I think it’s Rico, he looks so familiar. Did Damian lie to me? Then he takes another step, passing his gun from one hand to the other, and I see he’s younger and has teardrop tattoos on his face.
“You sure they’re related?” the third man says, tall and lean with a faint Italian accent.
“The boss sent Rico after her. He showed us all her photos before he chose him for the job. I knew I recognized her. That’s Julian Moreau’s sister, no doubt about it. Just took me some time to place her.”
“So that’s why he’s suddenly interested?”
“Reckon so.”
The Italian makes atsknoise. “Move those fucking panties.”
