2. Roses Don’t Grow Here

The SUV slices through the night like a blade through velvet—silent, sleek, merciless.

Inside, it’s quieter than death.

I sit in the back, spine stiff, fists clenched in my lap to choke down the tremble trying to claw free. Hellbringer won’t see it. I won’t give him the satisfaction. My shoulder’s a blaze where he twisted it. My ribs grind with every breath. But it’s the burn in my chest that hurts the most.

Betrayal.

Ryker’s voice still ricochets in my skull. You’re a weight we can’t carry.

Now I’m here. Not rescued. Not killed.

Just taken.

Hale Holt sits in the front seat, motionless. No words. No glances. Just moonlight carving hard lines across his profile, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near a holstered gun like it’s an extension of him.

I wonder what would happen if I lunged for it. How many seconds would I last?

Would he kill me before the barrel cleared the holster? Or would he wait—just to watch me fail?

The city fades behind us, swallowed by darkness. The streets grow thinner, the trees taller, and civilization unravels into silence.

No lights.

No signs.

No witnesses.

Just the hum of the tires and the steady drum of dread pounding louder in my ears. Then—finally—the SUV begins to slow.

Up ahead, black iron gates stretch open like jaws unhinging, ready to devour me whole. Beyond them, the Holt estate emerges from the shadows.

Massive and unforgiving.

Stone, steel, and power forged into one sprawling fortress. Spotlights sweep the yard like searchlights in a war zone. Cameras track every breath. Armed men stand like statues on the rooftop—rifles slung casually across their backs like they don’t expect trouble but would love the excuse.

I swallow hard.

This isn’t a house.

It’s a throne carved out of concrete and fear.

The SUV glides to a stop on the circular drive. The engine dies. For a beat, the world holds still. Then the driver’s door opens.

My pulse skips.

He appears at mine—unhurried, unreadable—and opens it like he’s offering me a choice we both know I don’t have.

I don’t move.

“Gonna drag me again?” I ask, voice dry as ash.

“If you make me,” he replies evenly.

I lift my chin. “Then do it. At least I won’t be the one crawling.”

No reaction. Not a flicker of emotion.

He leans in, grabs my arm, and hauls me out like I weigh nothing. The night slams into me, bitter and biting. I stumble, catch myself, and plant my boots firm on the pavement.

I don’t fall. Not again. Not in front of him.

He says nothing. Just turns and walks toward the house like I’m already following.

Of course, I do—because where else was I supposed to go? I’ll be dead before I make it to the gate. And that’s to say, if Hale lets me get that far.

He leads me up the stone steps, through massive double doors, and into the belly of the beast.

The second we cross the threshold, the air changes—drops ten degrees and steals the warmth from my skin.

I was inside Holt territory now.

And I know without giving it much thought…

This is where the real war begins.

The entry hall swallows me whole. It’s vast—vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, the kind of space designed to make a person feel small. Insignificant. Power echoes here in the hush between footsteps, a silence sharp enough to draw blood. Stone floors stretch out beneath me, polished to a mirror sheen, my boots the only thing marring their perfection.

The walls are lined with black-and-white photographs housed in thick, ornate frames. They loom over me—generations of dead-eyed men in tailored suits, medals gleaming on their chests, fingers curled around rifles, or resting on family dogs that look more like sentinels than pets.

Family, maybe. Or the men who killed in the Holt name. Who died for it.

I’m not sure which would be worse.

Hale doesn’t speak as we move deeper into the manor. We pass two guards in matte-black uniforms stationed at the junction between halls. They don’t blink nor react to our presence. Don’t acknowledge us at all.

As if that’s what they are paid to do. Or they’ve seen this a hundred times before, to the point that it draws no reaction from them.

At the end of a long, sterile corridor, Hale stops. A steel door waits—broad, featureless, institutional. It opens smoothly under his hand like it knows better than to resist him. He gestures for me to step inside.

I do, slow, cautious. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight.

It’s not a cell.

But it might as well be.

A narrow bed pressed against one wall. A metal chair bolted to the floor. A sink. No window. No clock. No way to mark time except for the slow crawl of my own thoughts. The air smells like bleach and steel and something faintly chemical. Like hope got sterilized out of this room years ago.

I turn to face him. “What happens now?”

His face is unreadable. Hard angles and harder silences. “Now? You learn your place.”

I force a short, bitter laugh. “You think this is going to break me?”

“No.” He tilts his head, voice like frostbite. “I think your family already did that.”

The words cut deeper than anything he could’ve done with a knife. Deeper than the bruises, the betrayal, the blood on my shirt that hasn’t even dried yet.

I turn away before he sees the flinch.

He steps back and starts to leave. But something in me claws for air. Maybe it’s desperation, maybe it’s rebelliousness. Maybe it’s just the need to remind myself I still have a voice.

“You should’ve killed me,” I murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.

He pauses. Doesn’t turn around. “I still might,” he says. “But not before I make you useful.”

The door shuts with a soft click that sounds louder than gunfire.

I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on my knees, head bowed into my hands. The last of the adrenaline drains out of me like poison from a wound. My shoulder throbs. My ribs ache. My lungs are raw from running, fighting, screaming inside. But none of that hurts half as much as the memory of Ryker’s eyes through the window—flat, unreadable.

The shackles tighten around my ribs.

I press my palms to my eyes, trying to force that voice out of my head, but it’s already part of me now. Etched into the parts of myself I thought were unbreakable.

Eventually, I lie back. Stare at the ceiling. It’s blank. Like the future.

I try to count the seconds. Focus on the rhythm of my own breathing.

But the silence doesn’t stay empty.

I wake without knowing when I drifted off.

Something’s changed.

The light overhead is still dim and humming. The walls are still gray, and the air is still cold.

But I’m not alone.

He stands by the wall, arms crossed. Watching. Hale.

I sit up too fast. Pain flashes down my spine like a warning shot. I grit my teeth and push through it.

He hasn’t moved.

“You sleep like the dead,” he says casually.

I glare at him. “Maybe next time you’ll help me stay that way.”

He takes a step closer.

And I rise to my feet like I still have something to prove. My body screams in protest—bruises blooming under my skin like ink in water—but I stand straight. I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me fall again.

He studies me with intent carved into every line of his face, gaze sharp and unflinching. Not lust. Not curiosity. Assessment—like I’m a blade he plans to turn against the hand that forged me.

“Tomorrow,” he says, voice measured. “We talk about what comes next.”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m not telling you a goddamn thing.”

“I don’t need you to tell me,” he says calmly. “I already know full well who you are.” A flicker of something unreadable dances in his eyes. “What I need is for you to understand who you belong to now.”

My spine straightens. “No one owns me.”

“You’re right. Ownership implies affection.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “This isn’t about love. It’s about leverage. About power. We’re getting married, Calistra.”

I blink. “You’re joking.”

He doesn’t smile. “A union in blood. One that ties you to me… and severs you from them. You wear the ring, you play the part, and together we bleed your father’s empire dry.”

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp punch of disbelief.

“Go to hell,” I whisper.

“I already live there,” he replies.

Before I can snap back, he turns toward the door, hand on the handle. Then pauses. “If you try to run,” he says, low and final, “you won’t get far.”

I sneer. “Is that a threat?”

“No.” He doesn’t even glance back. “It’s a truth.”

The door closes behind him.

This time, I hear it.

The lock slides into place with a solid, final click that echoes in my bones.

I start to pace, panting for air as I feel the panic rise inside my chest like a caged animal feeling the edges of its prison. Damn it, Cali. Now is not the time for a panic attack.

But it’s inevitable as the hysteria grows inside me, flanked by the sting of treachery.

I’m a prisoner because I was stupid enough to trust the people who were supposed to stand beside me.