I rush inside, gun drawn. “LEXIE! LEXIE!”
Silence.
I find Conor in the foyer, slumped against the base of a marble statue. He’s clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers from a jagged bullet wound. He stares at me with eyes full of a guilt that breaks me.
“Liam…” His voice cracks. “I…I tried. We all did. But they infiltrated before we even knew they were there.”
I drop to my knees, my hands shaking. “Where is she, Conor? Where did they take her?”
“A gray van,” he groans, his head lolling back against the marble. “Eamon…he was here. He took her, Liam. He said…he said he was taking her to his ‘guest room.’”
Fuck. They’re headed back to my penthouse in the city.
I let out a sound that isn’t human—a raw, guttural howl of agony and rage. I leave Conor for the oncoming medics and sprint for the armory.
First, I grab my tactical vest, snapping it into place. I load my magazines with mechanical precision, but nothing fills my vision apart from her.
Castrate and dismember.
I made a vow. And by the time the sun rises over this cursed city, I’m going to make sure every man who touched her—every man who evenlookedat her—wishes they had never made me remember who I used to be.
They took my Goddess.
And tonight? I am God and the Devil.
CHAPTER 21
Elexia
The last thing I remember is the taste of copper and the smell of ozone.
I struggled for thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of screaming, of clawing at the massive, gloved hands that pinned me to the sheets. I’d managed to land one solid kick to someone’s shin before a sharp, clinical pinch in my upper arm sent the world spinning into a gray kaleidoscope.
Whatever they used, I hope they measured the correct dose. The spin was too smooth for a paralytic. Too warm for propofol. Likely…a sedative. Professional. That worries me more.
All I remember seeing was a tall man with silver hair and wearing an expensive coat who oversaw the abduction.
Now, the world returns in a rush of cold air. I hear the hum of high-end machinery.
I groan, my eyelids feeling like they’ve been glued shut. For a few minutes, I let my body adjust, sensing a leather sofa beneath me. Once I blink my eyes open, the view makes my stomach drop.
Manhattan.
I’m in a penthouse, so high up, the cars look like ants crawling through a canyon of glass and steel. Nothing but afloor-to-ceiling wall of reinforced glass separates me from the sea of glittering lights.
I sit up, my head spinning. I’m still wearing the sheer silk chemise. My gut clenches. I look around, taking in the minimalist decor, the abstract art on the walls, and the four security guards posted like stone gargoyles near the exits.
I’m shaking. And it’s not just from the February chill.
“So this is the little whore who saved the scum.”
The voice is reedy, high-pitched, making the hair on my arms stand up. I look up to see a man leaning over the back of the sofa. Through the cuts and bruises and bandages, he looks like a weasel—sharp features, a cruel, hungry mouth.
Before I can scream, he grabs a fistful of my curls, yanking my head back until I’m forced to look at the ceiling.
“Finn,” a firm, cultured voice rings out from across the room. “Release her. That is no way to treat our honored guest.”
He releases me instantly. Finn, aka Weasel-face, stalks away, his left cheek twitching.
