The stench hits first—sweat, piss, coppery blood. It’s a stink that sticks to the back of your throat.
Inside, the air is dim, thick with silence except for the occasional groan. The sound echoes through the empty rafters until it finds me.
And there he is.
The bastard is strung up in the center of the room, arms stretched above his head, wrists bound in chain that creaks every time he moves. His shirt is torn open, chest mottled with bruises that didn’t come from me, yet. One eye’s swollen shut, blood crusted along his cheekbone.
But he’s still breathing. Still conscious. Good.
I shrug off my jacket, rolling my sleeves as I step closer. Each footfall echoes, deliberate, steady. He lifts his head, tries to focus on me through the mess of his face.
“Why her?” My voice is steady, measured. “You could’ve gone after anyone. Why Peyton?”
His lip curls, teeth red with blood. He doesn’t answer.
I tilt my head, studying him like he’s an animal I haven’t decided whether to put down. “This isn’t a trick question. You talk, this ends quicker. You stay quiet, and I’ll peel the truth out of you piece by piece.”
Still nothing. His chest heaves once, twice, and then he spits. Blood hits my boot.
For a moment, the silence stretches. Then I smile, slow and dangerous, and pull the hunting knife from my belt. The blade catches the dim light, flashing sharp as a promise.
I press the edge against his ribs hard enough for the steel to bite into skin. “Last chance.”
He laughs, a hoarse, broken sound. “Fuck you.”
The knife sinks in before he finishes the last word. Not deep but it’s enough to make him howl, to make the chains rattle above his head. I twist it once, slow, and lean close to his ear.
“I can do this all night. Hell, Iwillif you make me. But you’ll talk, one way or another. They always do.”
When I pull the blade free, his blood runs hot over my hand. His jaw clenches against another scream, but I can see the first crack forming in his resolve.
“Now,” I say, calm as ever, wiping the blade on his torn shirt. “Tell me who sent you after her.”
31
“You don’t havethe whole story,” I hear John murmur as I slip inside the house. His voice carries from the living room, low and stead, like he doesn’t want it overheard.
“She’s young, John,” Sutton answers, her tone sharper, but laced with something that sounds more like worry than anger. “He isn’t telling her everything about this life. She has no idea who he is or what it means to stand at his side.
I slow in the entryway, hovering near the arch that separates me from them. My hand brushes the wall, steadying myself as I lean close enough to catch their words.
“What do you expect me to do, Sutton?” John sounds tires, almost frustrated. “She isn’t much younger than you were when we married.”
“I knew exactly who your family was, John,” Sutton replies quickly. “That’s the difference. He’s keeping her in the dark. He won’t tell her anything and he won’t let us tell her either.”
“This is Colter we’re talking about.” John’s voice drops, carrying weight. “Not one of the men. I can’t force him to speak. Even as her father, I can’t break his order. His word is law.”
His word is law. The phrase sticks in my mind, sharp and unfamiliar. I thought Hudson was John’s boss?
“What if you spoke to Hudson?” Sutton presses, quieter now. “He isn’t thrilled with Colter’s silence either. He could force his son to tell her. Someone has to protect her.”
My mind wanders back to last night. The man in the bathroom. His pointed words that someone had paid him to get rid of me. Why? Because someone saw me with Colter? Is he that important that someone would target me because of him like he keeps warning me?
“She’s already the most protected person in the county,” John insists. “Despite what happened last night. No one could do better than the family. You’re letting your feelings for her complicate the way things are done. That’s dangerous.”
“Of course I am,” Sutton snaps, her voice trembling. “Peyton is your daughter. She’s been alone and hurting, even if she doesn’t recognize it. I know how that feels because I was her once, before you.”
Silence stretches, heavy but not hostile. Then John sighs, long and weighted. “Colter is the one in charge.”
