Mann rubs a hand down his face. “Now that we know who he was, we foundwherehe was. And Danbury’s remains in the basement of the shithole apartment building he was living in.”
Basia gasps and buries her face in my chest. We suspected she might be dead, but it sucks having it confirmed. I rub her back absentmindedly, my gaze going to her father.
“Why did you dismiss the investigations?” I ask mildly, trying not to alienate my future father-in-law.
Langford looks at his wife, a few steps away, locked in a conversation with Morgan—who insisted she come and see Basia’s well with her own eyes—and Damien. Then he releases a weary sigh.
“The case was misrepresented, I see that now. I was told these kids were orphans from a meth lab bust in the area, confused and maybe even addled. I dropped the ball, and now my wife and daughter almost paid the price.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” Basia sniffles, pulling away from my chest to look at her father. “Don’t blame yourself for what these sick people did.”
Langford gives her a weak smile. “Thanks, honey. But I see now that this goes way beyond a patch of Massachusetts. Children with similar tales were found all over the country. I’ll personally make sure the FBI takes a long, hard look into it.”
“Just be careful, Tom,” Katarzyna says as she sidles up to him. He takes her under his arm, mirroring my position with his daughter. “These people are clearly dangerous.”
“So, that’s it?” Damien asks in his low, serious tone. “The threat has been eliminated?”
I scoff, shaking my head. “I don’t think it’ll fully be over until these so-called prophets are taken out. The Sanctum of Ash seems to have their corrupt fingers everywhere.”
“But the Langford family is safe now,” Mann buts in, possibly feeling sidelined. “You were targeted by a sick individual, not some shadow organization.”
“No thanks to you,” Morgan says sharply. “Basia saved herself. And Killian Cross saved Mrs. Langford.”
“Call me Kasia, please,” Basia’s mom interjects, warmly.
Mann blinks at Morgan, probably not expecting a talking-down from a petite, curvy pregnant woman.
“Hey, it was all the self-defense classes we took,” Basia says to Morgan, trying to defuse the situation.
Morgan snorts. “Yeah. We went to like three? And then these two barged into our lives.” She uses her thumb to point at me and a smug-looking Damien.
I watch Mann quietly step back to where some uniforms are talking. Coward.
That’s when the doctor comes out, wiping his brow. Coleman jumps up from where he was leaning against the far wall, sprinting over.
“Matilda Wheeler’s family?” the doctor calls, looking at our rag-tag bunch curiously.
“We’re here for her,” the governor says, making the surgeon do a double-take.
“Governor Langford!” he exclaims, and Basia groans quietly. My lips tug up into a smile. She’ll be alright.
And so will Matilda Wheeler.
25
CALEB
This club doesn’t need advertising. It’s exclusive, private, and invitation-only. My reputation as a dominant precedes me, and securing a room for us tonight took very little effort.
From the outside, it looks completely unassuming.
No neon. No velvet rope. No line of eager tourists in pleather pretending they understand what submission costs. From the street, it looks like a private members’ lounge tucked between a tailor and a closed gallery—frosted glass, black steel door, discreet brass plaque with nothing but a sigil etched into it. No name. No hours.
You either know, or you don’t.
The doorman clocks me in half a second, assessing me. His suit is immaculate, dark charcoal, cut close enough to show the outline of a weapon under his arm. His gaze flicks to Basia—not hungry. Measuring.
“She’s with me,” I say quietly.
