I don’t think whoever is watching will be able to see through my scarf, but I’m not taking any chances. I drop to the floor and army crawl my way to the bedroom door. I slip the pin in the lock and fiddle for about twenty seconds.
Come on, come on, come on.
When I finally hear a click, I almost groan in relief. Thank God. Looks like the locks are as ancient as the toilets. Slowly, I push the door open, and the realization slams into me. No one is coming to save me. Axe would assume I left the party because I was sad about Nonna. And even if he gets suspicious, even if he worries, he’ll have no way of knowing where I’ve been taken.
It’s just me against whatever the hell is waiting outside.
I can do this.
I inch forward, craning my neck to get a look—then suck in a sharp gasp.
I don’t know what I expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
Where. The. Fuck. Am. I?
Forty-Nine
Axe
I haven’t set foot in Scotland since the day I buried my old man.
And even then, I flew in and out the same day, only to see that bastard in the box. Had to make sure that El D—the truest Devil I ever knew—was actually dead.
I spat on his corpse, told him I’d see him in hell, gave the mortician a thousand quid to burn and dispose of his body. Then turned on my heel and headed right to the airport. Nobody would question it. Nobody would ever admit to knowing El D, let alone being close enough to his gruesome business to care what happened to him after death. His whole empire was built on fear and silence.
I swore to myself I’d never come back. Too many ghosts. From across the Atlantic, I sold off Skara Brae and every last stick of furniture in it to a corporate buyer looking to expand its portfolio of fancy destination spas. Since Hamish was dead, I inherited it all, and I donated every bloody cent anonymously to anti–sex trafficking charities. I’d never touch my da’s filthy money. Not a penny.
The plane jolts as the landing gear hits the tarmac, yanking me from my thoughts. The G700’s engines whine as we slow to astop. I see the rain-soaked landscape of Scotland outside my window. A few hazy hills loom in the distance, half hidden by mist, but I know this place all too well—its secrets are buried deep in the earth, and its ghosts are waiting for me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and picture Josie’s smile, her contagious joy, the way her aura lights up a room. And aye, I know she’d laugh her arse off at me for sounding like her and using the wordaura.
I imagine the feel of her lips against mine, full and warm, grounding me.
The plane rolls into the private hangar, and I unclip my seat belt with a steady hand. The stakes are too high to give in to fear. As I step off the plane, Scotland’s icy breath stirs up every cursed memory I’ve tried to bury deep.
Dragging me back tothatmoment. The one that broke me beyond repair. The one that made me into who I am now.
I shove it away, disgust curling in my gut.
My eyes lock onto a figure standing beside the SUV, just outside the hangar. He’s leaning casually against the door, arms crossed.
The moment he spots me, a slow, confident grin splits his face.
“Look what the wind dragged back across the pond,” he says, swaggering over. His grip is firm when he shakes my hand, then he pulls me into a tight bear hug.
“Hawk! It’s been too bloody long, brother,” I say, slapping him on the back. Hawk isn’t just anyone; he’s the kind of guy you don’t forget—a tall, broad-shouldered, strapping lad, straight out of an action hero summer blockbuster. We met years ago, working as private contractors on some of the nastiest jobs in Eastern Europe. Mutual trust and steady trigger fingers were all that kept us alive.
It’s good to see him again, but the grins don’t last long. We both know this isn’t a reunion. “This one’s serious,” I say.
Hawk’s eyes harden. “Let’s get you geared up.” He moves tothe back of the SUV and pops the boot. Inside is an arsenal—pistols, assault rifles, the whole bloody works. As soon as I strap on the tactical vest, my heartbeat steadies. Josie’s out there, and she’s counting on me. And if there’s one benefit to being the wrecked version of Axe, it’s this: I know I’ll stop at nothing, absolutely nothing, to bring her home.
Fifty
Axe
The morning when Axe’s life is cleaved in two begins like any other: rain rattling against the windows, crows cawing in the distance. He hears the faint clatter of a girl’s heels echoing on the marble floors as she slips out of one of the Whales’ rooms, heading back to her bunk to crash. The hiss of a shower follows—a girl scrubbing away the traces of a filthy man. Downstairs, the clink of breakfast dishes signals that Mrs. Collins is laying out a buffet for the guests.
Axe is sixteen and constantly starving, his body growing so fast his legs throb at night. Hamish has taken off to somewhere in Eastern Europe—likely on another recruiting trip—and Axe is grateful for the break.
