“GET YOUR FUCKING ASSES IN HERE!”
I have never heard Cain raise his voice—not once. He’s growled, snapped, and when he’s in a particularly foul or deadly mood, he gets very,veryquiet. But what I hear from behind the door isn’t him getting quiet—it’s something far different andfarmore terrifying.
My blood nearly freezes beneath my veins. Greyson also looks appropriately alarmed. Cain raising his voice isunheard of, and he just shouted at the top of his lungs.
For the first time in years, I’m afraid to move. The king of the Nighthawks isn’t a man who gets upset. And right now, he soundsfurious.
“Fuck,” Greyson breathes out. He punches the code into the front door, and after a quick glance at the ceiling—as if he’s sending out aprayer—opens it.
What greets us is pure destruction in the living room. Overturned furniture. Broken lamps. Several holes in the wall.
Cain stands in the center of it all. His button-up is rumpled, and splattered with what I suspect is his own blood. His knuckles are swollen and busted. His expression isn’t the blank, calculating mask I’ve grown so accustomed to seeing; instead, it’s one of fury mixed with fear.
I didn’t know Cain had the capacity to feel fear. He’s a true sociopath, maybe even psychopath, down to his core.
“You called a Code Black,” Grey says, glancing around the room. “Was there… a break in?”
Cain gives his head a jerky, sharp shake. “He took her.”
I meet Greyson’s eyes. We’re both equally puzzled. “Who took who?” I ask.
“Dagon.” Cain’s voice holds oceans worth of fury, rage, and most surprisingly of all, helpless terror. I can see it in his eyes, too. He’s mad, yes, but I think much of his anger is fueled by fear. “He took my Chosen.”
My jaw and spine lock at the same time. Greyson reaches up to rub his temples.
We both know what this means; we’re about to go to war. And if Cain loses whoever the girl he’s spentyearsobsessing over, we’re all,utterlyfucked.
“Where?” Grey questions.
“If I knewwhere,do you think I’d call you two morons up here?” Cain roars. “Idon’t—fucking—know!”
“Alright, take a breath. We’ll get this figured out.” In the absence of what little sanity Cain possessed in the first place, Grey steps up, taking the wheel. And, honestly, I’m grateful for it. “First, I need you to calm the fuck down, and—”
It happens so fast, I’m shocked. I’ve only seen Cain in combat a few times, and each time, he blew my mind, but the way he grabs Greysonand slams him against a wall is so impossibly quick, I’mshocked.The strength with which he does it knocks the wind out of Greyson and forces him to let out a painful-sounding wheeze.
“Do not tell me to calm down!”Cainshouts. He pulls back his fist, gearing to pummel Greyson’s face, but I get there faster. I haul him off Grey and wrestle his arms behind his back. Whatever’s happening to the dark void that is his mind right now isn’t good. It could mean terrible things forallthe Nighthawks. One of the main reasons Cain is lauded as an excellent leader despite hismanyfaults is that he’s never lost his composure. Rarely shows hints of emotion. Everything is a game of chess to him, and he’s a chess grandmaster.
Greyson cracks his neck from side to side, a vein in his temple bulging. He flexes and unflexes his fists and inhales a deep breath, probably reminding himself that attacking Cain—no matter how satisfying—won’t do him any favors.
“It sounds like we’re in a time-crunch situation.” Greyson swallows harshly, trying to compose himself. “You could pummel me, or you could decide to screw your head on straight and realize that you called us up here because you need help, and we’re the best help you’re going to get.”
“If you don’t remove your hands from me immediately, I’m going to cut them off,” Cain seethes.
“Are you going to attack Grey if I do?”
“No,” Cain hisses.
I release him, glad to get my hands off him. His skin is cool, like a reptile's. Sometimes, I’m not entirely sure he’s actually human.
“We need information,” Greyson says. “Who is she, where is she based out of, when was the last time you saw her or had eyes on her,when—”
“I’m not telling youshit,” Cain seethes. “I won’t give you ammunition to fuck me over—”
“I have no interest in fucking you over. I like my head where it is, and I prefer it when you stay out of my fucking relationship with Scarlett. Now, I don’t give a fuck about you or whoever your Chosen is—we aren’tfriends—but you are my commander. If you want my help, I’ll give it, but don’t mistake it as me doing you a favor. It’s me following fucking orders.”
Cain pants angrily for several moments. Finally, he says, “Azalea Sullivan. Goes by Lea. Twenty-three years old. Postdoc in chemical engineering. Tenure at university.”
“Twenty-three-year-oldpostdoc?” I repeat.
