His lips quirk in that almost-smile that makes my heart race. "That's my girl."
And we walk into hell, ready to become the demons.
Chapter
Forty
ARCHER
The box seats give me a perfect vantage point over the auction floor, but they're doing fuck all for my nerves. I've been in combat zones that felt safer than this.
At least there, the enemy wore uniforms and you knew where the bullets were coming from. Here, surrounded by marble and crystal and the stench of entitlement, every rich fuck in a designer suit could be the one who hired assassins to kill us.
My earpiece crackles to life. "Viper in position," I mutter into my comm.
"Copy that," Bane's voice rumbles through the comm. "I've got eyes on the main entrance. No sign of our omegas yet."
No sign of them. The words make my chest tighten like someone's got their fist around my heart. Felix and Juniper are somewhere in this building, about to walk into a nest of vipers—real ones, not the sanitized military version I used to be. The kind that buy and sell people like they're picking out fucking furniture.
I force myself to breathe. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Felix's technique works pretty good, actually.
I remind myself he and Juniper aren't helpless. They're two of the most dangerous people in this building, omega status be damned. But that doesn't stop the protective instinct that's been riding me hard since we went in separate cars and watched them walk into the building.
Movement catches my eye. The backstage door opening. My whole body goes rigid as I watch two figures being ushered through by some asshole in a cheap suit who's definitely compensating for something with that much hair gel. But then I catch a glimpse of pink silk, of silver eyes that could cut glass even from this distance, and the knot in my chest loosens fractionally.
There they are.
"Visual confirmation," I report, trying to keep the relief out of my voice. "Our packages have been delivered backstage."
"About fucking time," Carlisle drawls through the comm. "I was starting to think they'd gotten lost. Or murdered someone in the lobby Both equally likely."
He's not wrong. Juniper's impulse control on a good day is questionable at best. Add in the stress of being back in this kind of environment, and we're lucky she hasn't already started decorating the walls with arterial spray.
I settle deeper into the plush seat in the otherwise empty box, watching the auction floor fill with human garbage. They file in like they own the world, which, financially speaking, they probably do. Men in suits that cost more than I made in a year in the military, women dripping with jewels that could feed entire villages, all of them here for the same sick fucking purpose.
To buy people.
The bile rises in my throat as I watch them mingle, champagne flutes in hand, laughing like they're at a fucking garden party instead of a slave auction. That one there, the greasy creep with the comb-over? He's already eyeingthe backstage area like a kid looking at presents under the Christmas tree. The woman in red beside him isn't any better, her predatory smile making my trigger finger itch.
This has to work. Tonight. We end the threat, we get our omegas safe, and then maybe we can start building something that doesn't involve constantly looking over our shoulders.
A life. A pack. A future where Juniper can nest without having panic attacks about locked closets, where Felix doesn't have to hide behind chemical masks, where we can all just... be.
The thought seems almost laughable in this place, surrounded by everything wrong with the world. But I hold onto it anyway, like a talisman against the rage building in my chest.
The house lights dim, and some smug piece of shit in a tuxedo that's trying too hard takes the stage. His smile is all teeth and no soul, the kind of expression that makes you want to check your wallet and your pulse.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he croons into the microphone, his voice oil-slick and nauseating. "Welcome to tonight's exclusive event. We have quite the selection for your discerning tastes."
Discerning tastes. That's what they're calling human trafficking now. I make a mental note to personally introduce this fucker to some enhanced interrogation techniques before the night's over.
"As always," he continues, practically salivating over his own words, "we guarantee the quality and authenticity of our merchandise. Each omega has been thoroughly evaluated for health, fertility, and... compliance."
Yeah. Checked over by the guy Carlisle blackmailed into vetting Juniper ahead of time so no one would touch her. By the end of the night, he'll be dead, too. No trace of us left in this cesspit that's destined to become a pile of ash and rubble before sunrise.
The curtain rises, and the first omega is brought out. A young man, maybe twenty, with the kind of hollow expression that says he's already checked out mentally. The auctioneer starts rattling off his "qualities" like he's describing a fucking car. Age, designation, previous training, whatever the fuck that means. The bidding starts at a number that makes me sick.
"First offering's on stage," I report quietly. "Young male omega. He looks..." Broken. Destroyed. Like every other omega we've pulled out of these hellholes. "He needs extraction."
