The crack echoed through the venue, somehow audible over everything else, cutting through the noise like a gunshot. A sound I knew I’d hear in my nightmares for the rest of my life. A sound that would wake me up in cold sweats, gasping.
Michaels’ body went limp instantly, a puppet with cut strings. His arms dropped, hanging uselessly at his sides. His legs buckled. The masked fighter held him for a moment longer, almost tenderly, then let him drop. Michaels crumpled to the mat in sections, knees first, then torso, then his head bouncing once against the canvas. His body lay there motionless, his head at an angle that was all wrong, twisted in a way that human anatomy shouldn’t allow, eyes staring at nothing, seeing nothing.
Dead.
The crowd exploded.
I sat frozen, my hand still locked in Indie’s, unable to process what I’d just witnessed. Unable to reconcile the clinical efficiency of that kill with anything human.
The masked fighter stood over the body, chest heaving with labored breaths. Blood—his own and Michaels’—covered his shirt in dark, glistening streaks. The metallic scent of it hung heavy in the air, mixing with sweat and the acrid smell of fear.He didn’t raise his arms in victory. Didn’t acknowledge the crowd’s thunderous adulation; their screams and cheers washed over him like a tidal wave of sound. He just stood there, perfectly still, as if waiting for something. As if listening for a signal only he could hear.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned toward our section. The movement was calculated, purposeful, like a predator who’d finally located his prey.
Even through the mask, even across the distance and chaos and the sea of writhing bodies between us, I felt his gaze find mine with laser precision as the masked fighter reached up and removed the mask covering his face. The fabric peeled away slowly, revealing features I knew as well as my own reflection.
My vision blurred with tears I hadn’t realized were falling, hot tracks burning down my cheeks. My hands trembled in my lap, fingers clutching at nothing. Beside me, Indie leaned close, her breath warm against my ear as she whispered, “Family protects family. Always.”
But I couldn’t hear her. Couldn’t hear anything over the roaring in my ears, the way my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest, threatening to shatter my ribs from the inside. The world had narrowed to a single point, that face, those eyes, that impossible truth staring back at me from the blood-soaked arena floor.
Mimic had just killed a man with his bare hands.
And he’d done it for me.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Melissa
The ride back to Sinclair’s house passed in a blur of streetlights and silence. I sat rigid in the back seat, my body still vibrating with the aftershocks of what I’d witnessed. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it... the twist, the crack, the way Michaels’ body had crumpled like discarded paper.
Mimic hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t looked at me again after that moment in the cage. He’d simply disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the chaos of celebration and bloodlust, leaving me with nothing but questions that clawed at my throat.
The moment we arrived, Sinclair moved through the house with his usual measured grace, heading directly toward his office with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested he’d been anticipating this confrontation. I followed close behind, my footsteps echoing far too loud against the polished marble hallway, my pulse hammering relentlessly against my temples. Every beat felt like a drum warning me that something was terribly, irrevocably wrong.
“Where is he?” I demanded, my voice cracking with a mixture of fear and anger as I pushed through the heavy oak door behind him. “Where’s Rowen? I want to see him. Now.”
Sinclair didn’t turn around. He didn’t even acknowledge my presence at first. Instead, he crossed to the ornate bar cart positioned beneath the west-facing window, pouring himself two fingers of scotch with the kind of deliberate, almost ritualistic calm that made my skin crawl. The amber liquid caught the dying afternoon light as he tilted the crystal decanter.“Mr. Shay is attending to business,” he said finally, his tone maddeningly neutral.
“What business?” I stepped closer, fists clenched so tightly at my sides that my nails dug crescents into my palms. “What the hell is going on, Sinclair? Where is he? Why won’t you just give me a straight answer for once?”
He took a slow, measured sip, savoring the scotch as if we had all the time in the world before finally turning to face me. His expression was unreadable, not cold, exactly, but distant. Removed. Like he was observing me from behind some invisible barrier. “He’s ensuring your future, Dr. Jefferson,” he said quietly, each word carefully selected.
His words hit me like a physical slap, stealing the breath from my lungs. “My future? What does that even mean?” I could hear the desperation creeping into my voice now, raw and unguarded. “Stop talking in riddles and tell me what’s happening.”
“It means,” Sinclair said, setting his glass down with a soft click against the polished mahogany desk, “that Mr. Shay is doing what needs to be done. What he believes is necessary to keep everyone safe.” His tone was measured, careful, as if he’d rehearsed this conversation a dozen times in his head before I’d even walked through the door.
“Safe?” My voice rose, hysteria creeping in at the edges, fraying my composure like worn thread. “Safe from what? I want to see him, Sinclair. I need to talk to him. Now.” My words tumbled out faster than I could control them, desperation bleeding through every syllable.
“That’s not possible.” Sinclair’s response was immediate, decisive, like a door slamming shut.
“Why not?” I demanded, hearing the pleading note in my own voice and hating it.
Sinclair’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, a muscle flickering beneath his skin. He looked away briefly, toward the rain-streaked window behind him, before meeting my eyes again. “Because he doesn’t want to be found. Not yet. He was very explicit about that.”
The room tilted. I grabbed the edge of his desk to steady myself, my fingers pressing hard against the smooth wood, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps that I couldn’t seem to control. The panic was rising like floodwater, threatening to drown me. “You’re lying. You know where he is. Tell me.” My knuckles had gone white from gripping the desk so hard.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” His voice remained infuriatingly calm, professional, detached.
“Can’t or won’t?” I shot back, my eyes searching his face for any crack in that impenetrable façade.
