For a moment, the world goes white.
Pure, blinding rage—the kind I've only felt a handful of times in my life.
The kind that makes men do terrible things.
The kind that erases everything except the primal need to destroy whatever threatens what's yours.
They took her.
They hurt her.
They might have hurt the baby.
Then the rage crystallizes into something colder.
Something sharper.
Something more dangerous than heat.
They took her.
They hurt her.
And I am going to kill every single one of them.
Slowly. Painfully. Without mercy.
I don't remember running to the clubhouse.
Don't remember climbing the stairs to Runes' office.
One moment I'm standing in that gap between buildings, staring at her blood in the dirt, and the next I'm bursting through his door.
Runes looks up from his desk, and whatever he sees in my face makes him go pale. "What happened?"
"She's gone." My voice doesn't sound like mine. It's too calm. Too controlled. The eye of the storm. "They took her."
Vanir is in the room too, I realize—the club's tech officer, a thinner man with blond gone gray hair and tattoos crawling up his neck.
He straightens from whatever he was working on at the side table, his expression sharpening.
"Who took her?" Runes is on his feet now, coming around the desk. "When?"
"Twenty, maybe thirty minutes ago. Someone lured her out of Bubba's. A woman. The bartender said she was older, dark hair." I hold up Dalla's bag, my hand steadier than it should be. "I found this in the gap between the bar and the storage shed. And blood. She fought them."
Runes' face goes through a series of emotions—shock, fear, fury—before settling into something hard and cold.
The MC president.
The man who's kept this club alive through thirty years of war.
"Solveig, or someone that works for her," he says.
"Has to be."
"Vanir." Runes doesn't take his eyes off me. "Security footage. Now."
Vanir is already moving, pulling up feeds on a laptop. "What time frame?"
