While Gordon has been openly gloating about capturing us, he’s been suspiciously tight-lipped about what’s going to come next.
Sadly, I don’t think it’s going to involve setting us free and promising never to bother us again.
He picks up a radio from the desk and pushes a button on the side. “Nichols? What’s the status on Samson?”
There’s no response other than static.
Gordon repeats his question with a frown. When there’s still no response, he speaks again. “MacIntyre, report on Matthias.”
More static.
My heart is thundering in my ears now. Have the Buckinghams overpowered their captors? Have they escaped?
Please let Wylder be okay.
Gordon’s pacing now, his cheeks glowing a ruddy maroon. “Carter. Status of Wylder, now.”
I’ve never been happier to hear the dull buzz of static in my life.
“Carter,” Gordon bellows into the radio, like that might get him a response. Honestly, how did we get tripped up by such a…loser? “Report on Wylder!”
I’m so happy with the lack of response. Wylder is safe. He’s escaped.
And he’s left you behind.
That’s okay. I’m used to it. At least I can die knowing that Wylder is safe.
No one will know how much my heart aches at the knowledge that even he didn’t come for me.
Spittle flies from Gordon’s mouth as he yells into the radio. “Is Wylder contained? Is he contained?”
“Unfortunately not.” My head whips around at the voice. I can’t see him—the door is blocking my view. But I’d know that voice anywhere. The velvet smoothness that’s as familiar as my own heartbeat. “I’m afraid Carter is unable to give any reports. Same with Nichols and MacIntyre. And the three that were with them. Such a shame.”
Wylder steps into the room, and I whimper into the gag. He’s here. He’s alone, but he’s here.
He didn’t leave.
He came.
You’d never guess he’s just been through an explosion and a kidnapping. I mean, yes, he’s still damp and covered in grime, his shirt is hanging in tatters, and there are several nasty bruises and burns along the skin I can see.
But you’d never know it from how he carries himself. Wylder stalks into the room like he’s attending one of those fancy galas he goes to. His chin is held high, expression utterly inscrutable.
Until I let out a choked sob. It’s muffled by the gag, but enough to draw Wylder’s attention.
He whips around, his mask dropping as he takes me in. I know I must look a mess. Gordon’s goons got in a few hits before knocking me out. With how my muscles are aching now, they weren’t gentle with how they transported and restrained me, either.
Wylder’s eyes darken, and I realize it’s not him I’m looking at.
It’s his monster.
I’m okay,I try to signal with my eyes.I’m okay.
I’m not sure he believes me. His monster sure doesn’t.
It probably doesn’t help that Gordon chooses that exact moment to come up beside me. I wince as cold metal pushes against my neck. Fuck, I hate guns.
“So good of you to join us,” Gordon croons. “Why don’t we talk about this like gentlemen?”
