Because this time—it won’t just take me.
It will take everything.
Chapter Twelve
Trey
Love The Hell Out Of You – Lewis Capaldi
The atmosphere shifts the moment we step out of the private corridor—out of the super top-secret, cool, James Bond, 007 Pierce Brosnan–Daniel Craig HQ, Q back room. You know, the linen closet, wink-wink—and back onto the casino main, heading toward the elevator that will take us to the main floor.
The noise is louder than it should be. The lights harsher. The openness of the space too exposed for my liking.
Instinctively, I move closer to Sera, my hand settling at the small of her back, my palm warm against her spine, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath the fabric of her top.
She is here. She is solid. She is within reach.
That little nap with my Dove has done me wonders. A familiar ache lingers in my knuckles and elbows where bone had met bone, but that was familiar. Welcome. The whole “I have-a-hole-in-me” situation still felt like hot shit… but I was not out of breath.
Just on edge.
Chace walks several paces ahead of us, his posture relaxed but his attention anything but. Klause and Artemis flank him with quiet precision, their movements fluid and alert, ears twitching at sounds no one else would register. Niko remains behind us, and as we cross the gaming floor, six more men fall into formation from different corners of the room.
They aren’t Igor… Chace doesn’t seem concerned about their presence. Shit, does he know everyone? That must be a nightmare, keeping track of staff.
Should we be paying attention to them?
You mean the whole us-getting-jumped-by-rando-cultists thing, so recognizing thugs A through F might be helpful?
Yes?
Ignorant of my inner monologue, they move without drawing attention to themselves, each one dressed sharply enough to blend with the high-roller clientele, yet their eyes never stop scanning.
I make a note to try and familiarize every face.
I thought I had been wound tight, but these guys are constantly sweeping—checking entry points, sightlines, reflections in mirrored columns. Anyone lingering too long. Anyone reaching into a jacket pocket. Anyone whose gaze lingers on my wife.
They’re like Klause and Artemis, but in human form…
Just before I start making mental nicknames and backstories for them, Sera’s fingers curl lightly into the pocket of my jacket—subtle enough that most would miss it, but I feel the tension in that small grip.
I lower my head just enough that my mouth brushes near her temple.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur quietly.
Yes, more caveman next time. Try and say it with a growl.
Unga-bunga-fuck-you-a.The elevator to the underground parking arrives, its doors opening. I position Sera in front of me as we step inside, my body shielding her from the doors, my hand never leaving her.
Even in a controlled environment, I do not relax.
I cannot.
Not anymore.
When the doors open, cooler air greets us, carrying the scent of warm concrete and gasoline. The underground level is quieter, the hum of engines idling somewhere in the distance echoing faintly off the pillars.
An SUV waits near the far column, engine running, tinted windows concealing the interior. It is positioned for a fast exit, angled cleanly toward the ramp.
