“I’m not telling you shit!” He lunges at me, and I side-step him before wrestling the knife from his hand. He backs off when I jab the point in his direction, raising his hands like the weak fucker he is.
“Find his phone,” I command Maddox.
My friend tears the apartment apart, upturning couch cushions and ransacking the poor guy’s room until it looks like a tornado spun through it. The whole time he looks, I try to get Butch to talk.
“Who paid you off?”
He huffs. “I already said I’m not telling you—”
I close in on him, grabbing the neckline of his shirt as I drag him to me. I get in his face as I jab the point of theknife into his side. Fear flickers across his features as he tries to scramble away. “You can either volunteer the information, or I’ll carve it out of you. Fucking. Talk.”
He stammers, his mouth moving too quickly for his words. “I-I don’t k-know who he is! I only know his name!”
“Then it would be wise to give it to me, right?” I tilt my head.
He nods quickly. “Waylon!”
Waylon Beckett.
We have confirmation.
Maddox comes out of the bedroom empty-handed as he peers around the apartment. His eyes trail to the hardwood flooring in the kitchen before he trudges past us and slams his boot on one of the planks. He keeps testing them until one echoes back with a hollow sound, and he squats down. He digs his fingers into the crack, then rips it open, exposing a hidden compartment. He reaches in before pulling out a wad of cash and a cell phone. “Found it.”
He tosses it to me, and I catch it before shoving it into Butch’s hands. “Pull up the number he contacted you with.”
The ex-guard fumbles with it as he scrolls through the call log until he finds an unsaved number. He hands it back to me, and I program the contact into my phone, then call it and lift the speaker to my ear. It rings twice.
“Hello?” A rough, deep voice greets, and my teeth grit at hearing Rosalie’s abuser acting so normal despite what he put her through. We’re no better, but we’re making up for what we put her through. He’s still trying to leech off his daughter’s success like the pathetic excuse he is.
“Waylon Beckett,” I chuckle humorlessly. “How have you been?”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“That doesn’t matter,” I dismiss. “I’m calling to give you a warning. If you come anywhere near Rosalie again, I’ll kill you.”
There’s shuffling from the other side of the phone beforeWaylon’s angry, slurring tone reaches me. “I don’t know how you got this number, but you can’t stop me. She’s my daughter, and she owes me far more than a few grand.”
My patience was already so thin for this man, and it’s now obliterated. He thinks our Siren owes him for the trauma he put her through. He’s got another thing fucking coming. “She doesn’t owe you a damn thing. Come near her again, and I’ll make sure you fucking suffer.”
He hangs up on me, and I toss the phone back to Maddox. “Track the number. Get me a location so we can put eyes on him.”
My friend nods as Butch looks between us with uncertainty. The ex-guard clears his throat. “You got what you wanted. Are we good?”
Maddox and I exchange a silent conversation with our eyes.
No, we’re not good.
Maddox closes us in the apartment, and I corner Butch. My elbow rears back before I deliver a punishing blow to his nose, crushing the bones. The man falls back, shielding his face as I reconstruct his god damned jaw. When he’s nothing but a bloody, swollen mess, I leave him as a warning to anyone who may come across him.
This has only just begun, but we plan to finish it. Waylon Beckett has no idea what lengths we’ll go to for his daughter. She’s no longer his concern, because she’s ours.
And it’s set in stone.
Walking into the living room of Rosalie’s home, I’m not expecting to see her and Kairo, freshly bathed and dressed in robes, as Rosalie expertly places a gel facemask over Kairo’s cheeks.
“What are you doing?” I ask from the doorway, causing them both to turn towards us.
My friend lifts a brow. “Skin care. You wouldn’t get it.”
