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A jerky nod. Tears streaking clean lines through the blood on his face.
“How many more?”
“What?”
“How many more men does Caldwell have watching her?” My voice drops to a whisper, forcing him to strain to hear it, his good eye wide and desperate. “How many know where she works? Lives? Where she fucking buys books?”
“I don’t— I swear he didn’t tell us—”
I press harder. His scream comes out wet, chilling. I didn’t even know a grown man can scream like that.
Greyson’s still there, a steady presence at the edge of the violence. He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t egg me on. He’s a reminder of the lines drawn even now, even here.
“I’ll ask one more time.” I let go of his eye, grip his chin, force his head back so he’s staring at the ceiling, pulse hammering beneath the skin. “How many?”
“Two… maybe three. He’s got guys watching the hospital, the apartment.” The words spill out of him. Watching her apartment. Watching for openings, for moments of vulnerability, for the split second when I’m not there, and she’s alone and they can move.
Caldwell’s playing a long game. He’s not sending one team. He’s building a network, a web of eyes and ears designed to track her movements, learn her patterns, find the gaps in my protection. The bookstore wasn’t a one-off. It was a test. A probe. And these three idiots in front of me were just the first wave.
I stop pacing and turn to the second man. He’s been watching me with the wide-eyed terror of a man who knows he’s in too deep. He appears younger, mid-twenties, with a weak chin and the kind of cheap bravado that’s already crumbled into fear.
“Your turn,” I say.
His Adam’s apple bobs. “I—I didn’t—”
“You grabbed her hair.” My voice is flat. Empty. The kind of calm that lives on the far side of rage, where everything is simple and very clear. “You put your hands on my woman and pulled her toward a van. You think I give a shit what your role was?”
“Please, I have a kid—”
I move before the words even hit my brain. My hands around his throat, fingers mapping the pressure points I know better than scripture. Carotids, vagus nerve, every piece of that fragile neck architecture humming under my grip. I don’t squeeze, not yet. I just hold, let him fucking feel it. The raw, uncut promise that with just the slightest twitch, I could snuff him out like a candle in a shitstorm. He knows it. I know it. And we’re both breathing in that electric tension, the kind that makes your skin buzz with danger and desire all at once.
“Listen up,” I growl, my face so close to his I can smell his sweat. “You thought grabbing my woman was a smart move. Now you’re going to tell me every single thing Caldwell fed you. Names. Places. The whole map.” I tighten my grip, just enough to make his eyes bulge. “Because your kid is about to be asking where Daddy went. And I’m the only one who can give him an answer.”
Words pour out of him like a dark, rushing stream. Names I’ve never heard. Places that mean zip. A safe house on the south side. A spot for secret messages. The cars his crew drives, make and model all laid bare. It’s an avalanche of info, desperate and frantic, and I let it come, noting every word, tucking them away for later.
When he finally stops, he’s gray-faced, breath shallow. I let go of his throat and step back. Greyson moves in, his presence commanding.
“Matthew.”
Matthew steps forward from his post by the door, his face a mask of controlled anger. He’s been a silent presence this whole time, eyes sharp, body coiled with restraint.
“Take their words. Cross-check everything. Get addresses, phone records, whatever matches up,” Greyson orders, ice cold and efficient. “And find out who else Caldwell’s paying.”
Matthew nods and slips out, phone already in hand. I stand there, heart racing, knuckles throbbing where they’ve split. Adrenaline’s still buzzing through me, but something’s shifted. Fury gives way to focus, precision forming like a battle plan in my mind.
Caldwell thinks he’s playing a game, setting up his pieces, testing our defenses. But he’s made one big mistake.
He came for what’s mine.
Now I know his name.
Chapter 14
Trixie
The door shuts with a soft click, yet it echoes like the seal of a tomb. Carter’s voice still lingers in the hallway, low, guttural, from a side of him I’ve only caught in fleeting glimpses until now.
My mother guides me down the shadowy corridor, her hand warm and steady on my back. She watches me, not with pity, never with pity, but with a keen gaze that sees everything. She’s taking stock, just like Carter did in the alley, noting every bruise, every cut.
