Chapter 71

ELENA

There were voices outside the door.

Not the usual lazy pacing of a bored guard. These were deeper. Sharper. Intent.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

They were coming.

I pressed myself to the wall beneath the vent, arms locked around my knees. The blanket I’d balled up to make it look like Aiden was still under it had already slipped slightly, the shape no longer convincing.

If they walked in and looked even once in this direction, they’d know he was gone. And if they figured that out, it was over. For both of us.

I glanced up again, barely letting my eyes move.

The grate above me was still cracked open.

Still empty.

Where was he?

Please. Please, baby. Be outside. Be gone.

A scraping sound outside—metal on metal.

The unmistakable rattle of keys.

No no no no—

I almost bolted upright. Almost screamed. But I forced myself to stay frozen, every nerve on fire.

Then—

Another sound.

Soft. Barely audible.

The faintest click of metal shifting from above.

I jerked my head up, just in time to see two small fingers press through the edge of the grate, then the smudged, dirt-streaked face of my son.

“Aiden,” I breathed.

He didn’t even get to speak. I reached up, grabbed under his arms, and yanked him down as fast as I could. He squirmed, startled, feet kicking gently against the wall as I lowered him to the floor.

The key hit the lock.

My hands were shaking so hard I nearly missed the screws as I slammed the vent cover shut and shoved it into place. It didn’t fit right. One side was bent, slightly warped from years of heat and pressure. I forced it closed with the heel of my hand, heart in my throat.

The door opened.

Two men stepped into the room. Bigger than the others. One of them had a jagged scar down the side of his face. The other looked bored.

I stood between them and Aiden, trying to act casual, trying not to show the fact that every inch of me was ready to tear through them if they got too close.

They didn’t look at me. Their eyes went straight to him.

“Look who’s finally up,” one of them said, smirking.

Aiden stood just behind my legs, still catching his breath. His cheeks were flushed. Sweat matted his hair to his forehead. I didn’t get a chance to ask him if he got out. If he called for help. If anyone was coming.

Because if he had?

He wouldn’t be here now.

The second man strode forward and grabbed me by the arm.

I didn’t fight. Not yet. Not while they were both standing between me and my son.

The first guy reached for Aiden.

Aiden growled.

Low and deep in his throat—surprisingly fierce.

The man laughed. “You hear that? Pup thinks he’s got teeth.”

He grabbed him anyway.

“Aiden!” I shouted, struggling in the man’s grip. My wrists ached under his hold, but I didn’t care. “Let him go!”

“Easy now,” the man holding me said, yanking me forward. “No one’s hurting anyone. Not yet.”

They frogmarched us out of the room, down a hallway I hadn’t seen before. My bare feet hit cold tile. Aiden walked stiffly between them, head down, fists clenched.

We passed several rooms—some with closed doors, others open to empty spaces, stark and lifeless. It didn’t look like a hotel. Or a private home. It looked… staged. Sterile. Like something built for function, not comfort.

Eventually, we were stopped in front of a plain white wall.

Aiden was shoved forward first.

One of the men pulled a newspaper from his back pocket and slapped it into Aiden’s chest.

“Hold this.”

He blinked, confused, but did it.

Today’s date was printed across the front page in bold black letters.

A proof of life photo.

The man pulled out a phone and snapped a few quick pictures—one from the front, one from the side, one of Aiden’s face in close-up. His lip was trembling.

They didn’t ask me to stand beside him.

They didn’t put me in the frame.

My chest tightened.

This was about him.

Only him.

What did that mean for me?

Before I could think too hard about it, I heard the familiar, measured footsteps echoing down the hall.

Pierce.

He strolled toward us like he was arriving at a dinner party. Relaxed. Casual.

“Is it done?” he asked, scrolling on his phone.

One of the men nodded. “Just sent it.”

A beat.

Then Pierce’s phone buzzed.

He opened the message, studied the photo, and smiled.

“Perfect.”

He tapped a few buttons, then hit send again.

I could only imagine where it was going. Moonstone. My father. My pack.

He looked up from the phone and gave Aiden a polite smile.

“I imagine that’ll get a pretty quick response.”

Even as he said it, his phone began to ring. He ignored it. Slipped it into his pocket like it was nothing.

And crouched in front of Aiden.

“You hungry, kid?”

Aiden didn’t answer right away. He looked up at me, eyes wide, body tense.

“No,” he mumbled.

But his stomach growled—loud and unmistakable.

Pierce’s smile widened. “Come on. Let’s get you some food.”

He held out a hand.

Aiden didn’t take it. He glanced at me again, clearly waiting for a signal. I wanted to tell him to run. To fight. But what good would that do?

So I gave him the only thing I could.

A slow nod.

“It’s okay,” I whispered.

His hand slipped into Pierce’s, reluctantly.

Pierce stood, tall and confident. “Just a quick bite. You’ll feel better.”

Aiden didn’t move at first.

So Pierce stepped closer, then rested a hand lightly on his shoulder.

Aiden flinched.

That hand wasn’t rough—not obviously—but something about it made my stomach twist. Too familiar. Too practiced. Like he’d done this before. Like he enjoyed pretending to be gentle.

He turned with Aiden and began walking him down the hallway, slow and calm like they were headed to brunch instead of whatever nightmare waited next.

Aiden looked back at me over his shoulder.

His eyes were wide—uncertain.

I forced myself to smile, to nod like everything was fine.

He gave a tiny, hesitant smile in return.

Pierce pulled him in a little closer, his hand now flat between Aiden’s shoulder blades. Paternal. Possessive.

My skin crawled.

I stood there, watching until the two of them disappeared around the corner.

And then I turned.

The two remaining men were still there.

Still watching me.

No longer pretending they weren’t.

The one with the scar smirked. His eyes swept down my body in a way that made me feel suddenly, acutely aware of how little I wore. A bathing suit, a thin linen beach cover up.

How cold the hallway had become. How empty the villa felt without Aiden nearby.

The other man’s mouth twisted into something between amusement and hunger.

I took a step back.

They took a step forward.

The scarred one cracked his knuckles.

“Well,” he said, voice low and gleeful. “Now that the pup’s out of earshot…”

I kept backing up until my heel hit the baseboard.

Nowhere else to go.

I looked over my shoulder—just pale walls and closed doors.

No guards. No witnesses. No help.

When I turned back, they were still coming.

Deliberate. Confident.

The smell of sweat and old blood reached my nose before they did.

I clenched my jaw and squared my shoulders.

“I wouldn’t,” I said, voice low and even. “You won’t make it out of this building alive if you lay a hand on me.”

They laughed.

A short, barking kind of laugh, like I’d just told them a joke.

For the first time since this all started, I didn’t know what I was going to do next.

I didn’t know if I could stop them.

I just knew I was alone.

And I was terrified.