Logan’s voice cuts in. “Do it.”
Dom exhales through his nose and hits the key. The screen goes black. For half a second, there is nothing. Then the video feed loads. The room changes. Not physically. But everything in it dies.
Olivia is on a bed. Restrained. Arms pulled out. Ankles bound. Body completely stripped. Vulnerable. Displayed.
My body registers every restraint first. Left wrist. Right wrist. Ankles. Bed frame. Distance between bindings. Slack. None. Skin rubbed red. Breathing shallow.
Alive.
That word hits once and stays.
Eli is on the floor near the wall, bound, bleeding, conscious enough now to lift his head. His face is swollen. Blood runs from a cut at his hairline. One eye is almost shut. He looks at Olivia first. Not the camera. Her.
Good kid.
A man steps into frame. Mask on. No face. Smart. Not smart enough. “Well,” he says, voice distorted through something electronic. “There he is.”
The camera shifts slightly, like someone adjusted it.
A second man laughs from off-screen.
Olivia turns her head toward the sound. Her face is pale. Terrified. Trying not to show it. Trying to breathe.
My hands stay loose at my sides.
Everyone else reacts.
Cain curses, low and vicious. Blaze moves one step forward before Shadow grabs his arm. Hammer says nothing, but his hand tightens around the back of a chair until wood creaks. Joker’s smile appears, but there is no amusement in it. Not a drop.
Logan’s voice is deadly calm. “Dom.”
“Working,” Dom says, fingers already flying. “Trace is bouncing. Multiple relays.”
The man on the screen tilts his head toward the camera. “You see her, biker?”
I don’t answer. He doesn’t need me to.
“You made this difficult,” he continues. “That was stupid. Expensive too.”
Olivia’s eyes squeeze shut for half a second at the sound of his voice. Then open again. She doesn’t scream. That hits harder than a scream would have.
“You took something that wasn’t yours to interfere with,” the man says. “And now everybody has to learn how this works.” The man steps closer to Olivia.
My vision narrows to the distance between his hand and her.
If he touches her, if his fingers land on her skin…
He lifts one hand. Stops just short of her face. Like he knows. Like he’s playing with the line. “Pretty thing,” he says. “I get why you got attached.”
Something moves through the room. A violent, collective pulse. I don’t move.
The man looks toward Eli. “And we brought your little guard dog too.”
Eli spits blood onto the floor. “Fuck you.”
Good kid.
The man laughs. “Oh, he’s got some bite left.”
