But if anyone gets between me and Margot, they’re dead.
Even though Bash and I don’t usually fight on the front line, we’re just as trained. And there was no chance in hell we were sitting this one out.
We move fast, crouching low. Bash got us the floor plan, so we know the layout. We’re betting she’s in the basement. I doubt she got the luxury of a guest room.
I force myself not to think about what I’ll find down there. Not yet. First, I have to get to her.
A Russian ambushes us, grabbing Bash in a chokehold. Bash doesn’t miss a beat. He flips the guy over his shoulder and takes him down like it’s nothing. Pressure points, or some ninja shit knocks him out cold.
We leave him. Bash’s apparently honoring Dom’s ‘don’t kill unless necessary’ order. I’m not sure I would’ve.
Finally, we reach the basement door, but it flies open. Another man lunges at us. Bash moves to take him, and I push past them.
“I’m going down. Hold the stairs,” I snap. “Don’t let anyone follow. I’ll take care of whoever’s left down here.”
I charge down the steps.
The basement splits. Left or right.
I pause for half a second.
Then go left.
My gut never lies about her.
Doors line the hallway, each with a tiny, grimy window.
The first room: a filthy cot, a metal toilet, and floors stained with God-knows-what. My stomach twists. These are cells. This is where they’ve kept her.
Second room: empty.
Third: a man.Not my problem.
Fourth: empty.
Fifth: my heart stops.
She’s curled on the cot in fetal position. Her back to the door.
Brown curls, once bouncy and vibrant, now lie limp and lifeless. The once jade dress from the gala is now ripped, stained, and barely clinging to her frail frame. Her skin, once glowing, is now sickly pale.
Margot.
Relief surges through me, slamming into my chest like a wrecking ball.
She’s here.
After seven goddamn days, she’s here.
I try the handle, and it gives. I fling the door and let it hang open. These doors lock automatically. I won’t let it trap us.
I step inside.
Relief morphs into heartbreak.
She’s thin, too thin. Like she hasn’t eaten once. Her curves are gone. Her bones are visible beneath her grimy skin. Bruises mark her face, arms, and neck. Cuts and filth do too. Bags hang under her eyes so dark they match the bruises.
My chest aches. My girl, my spitfire, lies broken.
