I head for Blair’s room.
The same one I left her in this morning, curled under the sheets, still faking sleep like she thought I wouldn’t know.Wearing my shirt, and nothing else. Legs tangled in the covers, lip curled like she was daring me to pull her back in before I left.
When I reach her room, I see it right away—the door. Cracked open. Just a sliver.
Fuck.
My stomach drops. Every instinct howling. I told her not to leave. Not to even crack the goddamn door. But like the defiant, mouthy brat she is, of course she didn’t fucking listen.
I move in closer. Slow. Controlled. Blade firmly in my hand
The closer I get, the worse the air feels—off somehow. Like it’s been disturbed. Like something wrong already happened and the walls are still holding onto the memory.
I push the door open with the back of my knuckles, and the smell hits me like a fist to the teeth—copper and sweat and something burned.
Blood.
Lots of it.
Then I see the bed, and I freeze.
Ruck. Lying flat on his back, arms spread, chest split wide like a goddamn crime scene anatomy lesson. Blood everywhere. Soaked into the mattress. Pooled along the floor. His eyes are blown wide, glassy, staring at nothing. His lips parted like he died trying to say something.
And Blair—she’s nowhere.
I step in. Slow. Measured. Every muscle locked. My boots stick to the floor, just slightly, just enough to tell me it’s worse than it looks. Which is saying a lot.
There’s a burner phone lying on Ruck’s chest. Dead center. Like it was fucking placed there. Not dropped. Not fumbled in some last-ditch move to call for help. No, left. Like a signature.
A fucking calling card.
My vision’s tunneling, rage threading through every breath, every beat of my pulse.
“Motherfucker,” I growl, low and lethal.
Behind me, the door creaks again.
“Fuck,” comes Noir’s voice.
I spin, already half expecting a fight.
He steps in like he’s been running through hell—hood hanging off his shoulder, his shirt damp, eyes burning. Not scared. Noir doesn’t do scared. But he’s rattled. He’s pissed. The kind of pissed that makes you do something reckless. Something irreversible.
He sees the bed.
The blood.
The empty space where Blair’s supposed to be.
And I watch it happen, watch him fucking snap.
“No—no, no, no. Where the fuck is she?”
I whip a glare at him. “You think I fucking know?”
Noir punches the wall hard enough to dent the drywall, his breath coming ragged. “Fuck. We were so close. Time’s not up yet. You said Dante gave you what—forty-eight hours? We still had time!”
“Yeah, well, stupid us for expecting a cartel boss to keep his fucking word.” My voice grits out like gravel. “I should’ve seen this shit coming. I knew leaving her was risky.”
