dance with the devil - breaking benjamin
IburstoutofRex’s car, spotting my people scattered across the front lawn of Indie’s mom’s house.
Eyes cast downward.
When we tried to call Dawson back, it went to voicemail. When I tried Indie, it went to voicemail.
We missed Dawson’s calls and texts by an hour; it then took almost two to get here with traffic. And going by the fact that no one can look me in the fucking eye, I know I’m about to become apocalyptic, can feel it surging beneath my skin.
Both my hands smack the doorframe with the force of a hurricane, the wood splintering as it makes impact with the wall.
The last time I walked through these doors, my stomach was twisted with nerves, knowing something wasn’t right. And then I lost her for six whole years.
Why the fuck do I have that same darkening dread building up again, tenfold.
Despite my dramatic entrance, and the certainty my eyes look like the antichrist’s, my voice comes out with a haunting calmness. “Where. The fuck. Is she?”
Dawson slowly meets my gaze from his seat, a vicious cut and bruise already forming over his forehead and eye, the skin around it swollen as his bloodshot eyes meet mine. “Morgan took her.”
I blink.
“They left in a blacked-out van.”
Then blink again.
My eyebrow begins to twitch.
“He’s been working with them,” he adds.
The hooks on my jaw threaten to crack, my glare looking over the destruction of a home I know so well. My voice drops to a depth I’d yet to discover. “Don’t leave a fucking word out.”
When he gets to the part on how everything was clear until they found a beaten Morgan on the roof, the rest starts to bleed into white noise.
How many of them are fucking part of this?
How the fuck did we misshimbeing a part of their organisation?
The guy looks like he asks for permission to take a piss.
Right before I spiral and make the house look like a tornado rammed through it, Grace opens her eyes from the couch, pulling off the oxygen mask. Her voice is rough and hoarse when she whispers, “Where is my daughter?”
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It’s not my place to tell her what her daughter does, nor do I intend to. I somehow need to convince her to leave here and head to the Pit with Ultio. And none of that can be done without outing something.
Grace comes to more, leaning up on the couch with the help of our medic Kyle. Her eyes widen when my father walks in. “Malcolm?”
Dad gives her a tight smile. “Hello, Grace. It’s been a while.”
Her gaze goes from him, to me, to Rex and Dawson. All of us with bulletproof vests and guns showing. Dawson’s typing on a laptop as his phone lies crushed beside him, and Rex withtwoguns in his holster.
Her hand whips to her head. “Oh my God. Oh my—”
“Easy, Grace,” Dad says, kneeling down in front of her.
“I’ll grab some water,” Rex adds, disappearing into the kitchen.
