CHAPTER 004

LYRA

I don’t answer him. I watch him take slow, deliberate strides that make no sound against the damp concrete around me. He takes another small sip of his drink, his pale blue eyes watching me like a predator evaluating a cornered rabbit.

"He isn't here for Declan's debt." The realization settles in my gut like a block of ice.

Might this be another one of Declan's messes? Did he piss off someone even higher up the food chain? Does he owe this man money, too? I desperately hope not. Because unlike the thugs I met earlier, I can tell that this man is far more dangerous. He is the kind of man you never want to cross, the kind who doesn't shout or throw temper tantrums, but finds small, excruciatingly painful ways to make you disappear.

He completes another slow loop around my chair, the glass never straying far from his lips. I force myself to study him through the gloom.

First, I notice the ink. Unlike generic street tattoos, his look clinical, calculated, and deliberate.

Etched across his knuckles and the backs of his hands are dark, precise line work depicting chemical equations. Molecular structures and covalent bonds trail up beneath his white dress cuffs.

I tilt my chin up slightly, following the ink up his throat. On one side sits an intricate compass pressed against a human skull. As he turns his head, the yellow light catches the other side of his neck: a wide-open, hollow mouth caught in a silent, eternal scream.

My stomach turns over, and I swallow hard, my throat dry as bone. Only a psychopath would permanently engrave a screaming face onto his own skin.

His footsteps stop directly behind my chair, and I feel him hovering there.

This is it.

Panic claws at my chest. He’s going to strangle me from behind, or pull a hidden blade from his suit and slit my throat.

I clench every muscle in my body, pressing my spine flat against the hard wooden backrest, swallowing down the desperate urge to plead for my life. I cannot risk another blow to the head. My skull is still ringing from the backhand I took at the apartment.

The quiet tap of his leather soles resumes, and he glides around and stops directly in front of me.

When he raises his free hand, my heart leaps into my throat, and I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut, bracing for the impact of a palm across my face. It doesn't come.

Instead, long, calloused fingers clamp firmly around my jaw. His grip isn't cruel, but it’s unyielding, forcing my head up until my neck is stretched tight and I am staring straight into his face.

Those eyes. God, those eyes. Nothing in this world could be scarier. They are completely vacant of warmth or empathy.

“Now that you’re done staring,” he mutters, his voice a low, gravelly purr, “we get down to business and tell me where the hell it is.” He yanks his hand back, shoving my chin so hard my back slams against the chair.

“Where is... what?” I ask, forcing my raspy voice to remain level, careful not to sound defensive or ignorant.

The corner of his firm mouth tilts up, but never reaches those icy eyes before a soft, dangerous scoff escapes him. “I see you’re still sticking to the script. Should I leave you in here for a few more days with the white noise blasting, and come back when you’re done playing games?”

I swallow hard, cold sweat slicking my palms. How do I convince this man I have no idea what he’s talking about without sounding like a lying brat?

I shake my head, my eyes burning as tears threaten to spill. “I am not acting! I don’t know why I’m here! You can just tell me what he did and get it over with! Trust me, you’re not my first surprise today...” My voice cracks on the last word, shaking so badly it’s embarrassing.

He squints down at me, a tiny, faint scar catching the light just above his left eyebrow. “Who is this he you keep talking about?”

“My boyfriend! Declan!” I choke out. “How much does he owe you? What did he do to you?”

That same faint flicker of confusion crosses his eyes, but it vanishes instantly as he lifts his tumbler and takes a slow, unhurried sip.

Is this his sick game? Pretending not to know?

Before I can speak again, he raises his free hand and snaps his fingers twice.

A hidden door set seamlessly into the concrete wall behind him clicks open, and a man steps in, built like a brick wall and clad in a dark suit with black sunglasses. He looks like a federal agent, though I doubt the FBI uses underground torture chambers.

Without a word, the guy hands him a slim black tablet, turns on his heel, and vanishes back through the door.

He doesn't look at me as his thumb glides smoothly across the glass screen, the harsh blue glow reflecting off the sharp, sculpted angles of his face before he lowers his hand.

He grabs the metal chair from earlier, drags it over, and sets it inches from mine. He sits down, leaning forward until his face is dangerously close to mine, and places the tablet flat on my lap.

I close my eyes, take a long, trembling breath, and prepare myself for the absolute worst.

If he dragged a screen into this godforsaken place to show me what Declan did, it must be something so grotesque he couldn't put it into words. I force myself to count to three, gathering every shred of courage left in my body before opening my eyes.

The bright screen blurs my vision, and I squint, trying to make sense of the image.

It’s high-definition security footage of a massive, ultra-luxurious office, floor-to-ceiling glass windows, black marble, and an expensive rug that probably costs more than my annual salary.

The room appears empty at first... wait. I lean closer, my brows knitting, and a figure in a sleek, skin-tight black leather cat suit creeps behind the massive marble desk.

It isn't Declan. It’s a woman.

Horrible, sickening thoughts flood my mind.

Is Declan having an affair? Did he mess around with a woman who belongs to this man? Did they get caught together in this office, and now this monster kidnapped me to get his revenge on both of them?

I watch the screen, my pulse quickening, as the woman deftly opens a desk drawer and grabs something. I hold my breath, waiting for Declan to burst into the frame. But he doesn't. Instead, the woman turns toward the ceiling camera and looks straight up into the lens.

“What the fuck...” The words slip past my lips before I can stop them as the footage freezes right on her face.

I snap my head up, and he is now sitting inches from me, having gone completely still, his expression turning deathly cold. I tear my eyes away, dropping my gaze back to the screen.

This is a nightmare. This has to be a sick, twisted illusion.

I open my mouth to speak, but his large hand reaches out, snatching the tablet off my lap before he leans back in his chair.

“Where the hell is it?” he asks.

This time, his voice is stripped of tone, color, and emotion. It is a flat, deadly silence that means he is seconds away from ending my life.

I shift in the chair, desperately pulling against the ropes, but the rough fibers only tear deeper into my wrists, smearing wet blood across the arms of the seat.

“I will not ask you again,” he snarls, rubbing his chin, bored.

I shake my head, my breathing turning into erratic, jagged hitches. I don't have what he wants. I've never seen that office in my life. But the woman on that screen...

She has my eyes, my nose, my hair. She has my face.