In a blind rage, I hurl my phone at the dashboard. It bounces off with a crack and disappears somewhere by my feet.
Goddamn, I need my fucking phone.
Keeping one hand on the wheel, I grope blindly around the floorboard, fingers searching for the device. My knuckles scrape against something hard—there it is. I grab it, cursing when I see the spider-webbed screen.
Still works though.
I scroll through my contacts, bypassing Ortiz this time. If he’s not answering, I need someone who will. Someone who owes me.
I hit call on Ramsey Blackwood’s number, drumming my fingers impatiently against the wheel as it rings. The Blackwoods and I have a complicated history at best. One, two, three rings...
“What, Devereux?” His voice comes through with a deep, annoyed sigh.
“I need a trace on a cell phone. Right fucking now.” I weave through traffic, pushing well past the speed limit. “Seraphina’s been taken.”
“Taken?” The boredom in his voice evaporates instantly. “Do you know by whom?”
“My driver. Marcus. She was heading north on the highway fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago, but her location sharing is off now.”
“Give me her number.”
I hear him murmuring to someone but it’s mostly muffled. The only thing I can make out is that he needs to do something and then they can go to dinner. Something about a star but I need him to not be a fucking astrologist right now.
I rattle off Seraphina’s number, my knuckles white on the steering wheel as I cut across three lanes of traffic. Some asshole lays on his horn, and it takes everything in me to not ram his ass into the center divide.
“Give me two minutes,” Ramsey says. I hear rapid typing in the background, the click-clack of his keyboard is annoying just like his voice. “I’m hacking her phone and reenabling her location but hiding it so whoever has her doesn’t know it’s back on.”
“Hurry the fuck up,” I growl, taking a corner so fast my tires screech in protest.
“You know, most people would say please when asking for highly illegal favors,” Ramsey drawls, but his typing doesn’t slow. “Especially when I’m skipping dinner with my girlfriend to help your sorry ass.”
“I’ll buy you a fucking island if you find her in the next sixty seconds.”
He laughs, low and dark. “I don’t need your money, Devereux. But I’ll remember you owe me.”
More typing, a string of muttered curses, then: “Got her. Sending coordinates now. Looks like she’s at some property about forty minutes north of campus. Maybe an old lodge by the looks of the satellite image.”
My phone chirps with the incoming pin and I click on it to pull it up on my phone’s map just as the line goes dead before I can even respond.
I fucking hate the Blackwoods. The fucking lot of them are so uncouth, no goddamn manners.
The speedometer pushes past 110, but it’s still not fast enough. Every second feels like an eternity, my mind spinning through worst-case scenarios. The possibilities are endless, and each one makes my blood run hotter.
I slam my fist against the steering wheel. I should have had better security on her. Should have anticipated something like this after I humiliated my father in front of the council.
The further I drive, the more isolated it becomes. No houses, no streetlights, just dense forest and the occasional dirt road branching off into nowhere.
I follow the GPS as it leads me deeper into the woods, gravel crunching under my tires. The car bounces over potholes and uneven terrain, but I don’t slow down. Not when my sweet Little Sinner is waiting.
It’s not a lodge but a goddamn church. The structure is ancient, half-collapsed in places, with vines crawling up the stone walls like they’re trying to drag the whole building back into the earth. Moonlight filters through the broken stained glass windows, casting eerie colored shadows across the overgrown grounds.
My car’s headlights illuminate the Bentley parked haphazardly near the entrance. Empty.
I kill the engine and step out, the silence of the woods pressing in around me. No birds, no insects. Just the sound of my own breathing and the distant rustle of leaves in the wind.
The massive wooden door hangs partially off its hinges. I push it open slowly, wincing at the loud creak that echoes through the night air. Inside is pitch black except for flickering candlelight coming from deeper within.
I slip inside, keeping to the shadows. The floorboards groan beneath my feet despite my attempts to move silently. The air smells of mold, dust, and something else—something metallic that makes my stomach clench.
