“What the fuck do you want, Liam?” My voice is low, dangerous. “Where is Jett?”
“I don’t know where he is,” Liam says, breath still ragged from the run. “But I know what happened.”
I cross the space between us before anyone can blink. My fist knots in his collar, and I slam him against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame behind him.
“What…” I grind out, inches from his face, “…did he do?”
“I tried to stop him,” Liam chokes, his eyes glassy, guilt swimming there. “Jett’s obsessed with her. It is not a crush. It’snot harmless. He’s obsessed. He’s been spiraling for weeks. He planned it.”
My grip tightens.
“I fought him,” Liam continues, words spilling now. “But Trent stepped in. Our bassist. He thought I was overreacting, so he jumped me, and that freed Jett. Then Raoul stepped in to break up the fight, and suddenly everything was chaos. That left Effa alone for j-just long enough.” His voice cracks. “Jett used the distraction. Slipped something into her drink while everyone was watching the fight.”
My stomach turns, cold and acidic. “What was he trying to do?” I ask, though I already know.
“He dosed her,” Liam says hoarsely. “Roofies. A massive amount.” He swallows hard. “He wanted revenge on you. He convinced himself that if he got her alone, if she was out of it, she’d sleep with him. That she’d wake up and think it was you. That she’d fall for him. He thought they’d become some kind of power couple. He wants fame, attention. He thought she was his ticket.”
The room tilts sideways.
“He was going to rape her,” I say, and it doesn’t even sound like my voice anymore.
Liam nods once. “That’s why I tried to stop him.”
Heat detonates in my veins. Not anger, not even rage, something nuclear. I release him with a violent shove and turn away before I do something that can’t be undone.
Alana’s voice slices through the crackling air. “You saved her, Mercs. Remember that. You walked in when you did.”
‘Saved her.’
The words don’t settle. They hover there, fragile.
“Luke,” I say, not turning around. “Tell the doctor to test for Rohypnol.”
He’s already moving before I finish.
I glance at Raoul, who looks wrecked. Hollowed out. I’m furious he left his post, but I know he stepped in to stop a fight, and Jett engineered every second of it. Manipulated the room. Played us like goddamn instruments.
“Thanks for coming forward,” I mutter to Liam.
He nods, shoulders sagging. “I really hope she’s okay.” Then he leaves.
The waiting begins.
Time stretches thin and brittle, every second feels sharp like the click of a clock.
Finally, a doctor approaches, wearing a white coat and a calm face. The kind of composure that makes you brace for impact.
“So?” I demand.
He speaks in measured tones. Blood work confirms elevated Rohypnol levels. Activated charcoal was administered… Oxygen deprivation… Risk of anoxic brain injury… Induced hypothermia to protect brain function… Medically induced coma… Ventilator support.
The words blur together, clinical and detached, and I know I am only hearing some of them while my world fractures.
“She has four broken ribs,” he adds gently. “Likely from CPR.”
I swallow against the iron taste in my mouth.
“She’ll be here for several weeks,” he continues. “She’s stable. But we’re not out of the woods.”
