Chapter 07 The Shadows Stir

Dorothea was still standing in the hallway, a tiny, spectral figure in the gloom.

Avery walked over and scooped her up. The child’s skin was like ice; there was no telling how long she’d been rooted there.

"Sweetheart, why are you out of bed?"

Dorothea didn't answer. She buried her face in the crook of Avery’s neck, her stuffed rabbit crushed between them.

"Mommy," she whispered. "He stopped."

Avery paused, her heart skipping. "Who stopped?"

"The one who was counting."

Avery carried her back, tucked her in, and pulled the duvet up to her chin. Dorothea blinked, clutching her rabbit, and after a long moment, her breathing finally leveled out into a fragile sleep.

Avery sat on the edge of the bed, watching her daughter’s face. So small. So eerily quiet.

Before the first rays of dawn could break, a sharp rap sounded at the door. It was Drake.

"Dr. St. Clair. We have a situation."

She followed him into the hall. Drake’s jaw was set, his expression grim.

"The surveillance in the east wing went dark for twenty minutes. The breach originated from your room. Your key card was cloned this morning."

Avery looked down at the card in her hand. She’d used it to enter Dominic’s study earlier. It hadn't left her pocket since.

"Dorothea—"

"The child is fine. The hallway is locked down," Drake reassured her, though his voice dropped an octave. "But that’s not the worst of it."

He handed her his phone. A message glowed on the screen:

Julian’s primary physician was replaced this morning. The new doctor immediately altered his medication logs. The medical trust account has been frozen.

Avery’s grip tightened until her knuckles ached. It was a trap—a blatant, jagged hook. Julian was the bait, and they were reeling her in.

If she went, she was walking into the lion's mouth. If she stayed, her brother would pay the price in blood.

She turned and marched toward Dominic’s study.

She pushed the door open without knocking. He was standing by the window, already dressed in a sharp, dark suit that screamed power. He had just ended a call.

"Your security was hacked," Avery said, her voice tight.

"I know."

"The access came from my room—"

"I know." He turned, his movement stiff, and handed her a remote.

The wall monitors flickered to life. Two black SUVs sat idling outside the main gate. They didn't move. No one got out. They just loomed there like vultures.

"My East Pier shipment was intercepted. The south side logistics are blocked. Two of my offshore accounts were flagged and frozen," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And your brother’s doctor was swapped out an hour ago."

"But you just fixed that yesterday—"

"They’re cowards hiding in the shadows," he cut her off. "It’s easy to break things when you’re invisible."

He handed her a separate file.

"Your brother is holding something. A backup from Wenger. They’re coming for him because they need your signature for the authorization. They want you there, and they want that data."

Avery froze. "How could Julian have a backup from Wenger?"

"Wenger gave it to him," Dominic said flatly. "Wenger knew he was a dead man walking. He entrusted his most dangerous secret to someone who couldn't speak. Silence is the ultimate vault."

"What’s in the backup?"

"I don’t know. But they’re moving fast enough to risk a direct hit on me to get it."

A small sound echoed from the hallway. Avery stepped out to find Dorothea standing by the study door, clutching her rabbit and staring through the crack.

"Sweetheart—"

Dorothea wasn't looking at her mother. She was staring into the room, toward Dominic. "Uncle Julian is not okay," she whispered.

Avery quickly ushered Dorothea back to her room, then returned to the study. Dominic hadn't moved.

"You took her back," he noted. It wasn't a question; it was an observation of her maternal instinct.

"I did."

He was silent for a beat, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the window frame. Avery noticed something off—his gaze was fixed about five inches to the left of where she was standing.

He raised a hand to rub his brow, a sharp, frustrated gesture.

"Don't get the wrong idea," he rasped. "I just don't like people playing games on my turf."

He turned to Drake. "Get the cars. Notify the hospital team. We proceed as planned. Assign two men to the third floor—they don't leave the child’s side for a second."

Drake nodded and vanished.

Avery looked at Dominic, her doctor’s eye narrowing. "Your condition—"

"Is nothing compared to being handled like a pawn," he snapped, straightening his cuffs. "The rats in the dark need to be smoked out before I can crush them."

His gaze slid past her face again. He didn't correct it. He simply shoved his hands into his pockets and walked out.

The hospital was unnervingly quiet. The white walls bled cold light under the fluorescent tubes, and the air tasted of sharp bleach.

Avery led the way, with Dominic trailing a step behind. She noticed that as they stepped into the elevator, he reached out to steady himself against the wall. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the railing, letting go the instant the doors opened.

Julian’s room was on the third floor. The door swung open. The bed was stripped and empty.

"Julian—"

"In the next room."

The voice came from behind her. Avery spun around to see a man in his forties with gold-rimmed glasses. Dr. Greene.

She remembered him from an academic conference last month. Wenger had introduced them, claiming Greene was "fascinated" by her work on C-PTSD. Now, the memory felt like a premonition.

Dominic stood in the hall, a dark, silent sentinel. Avery looked back at him. He gave her a sharp, imperceptible nod. Only then did she step into Greene’s office.

Dominic leaned against the wall outside and dialed Drake. "Lock the exits on the third floor. Switch to the backup feed. I want eyes on every soul in this building."

"Copy that."

He hung up and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the light at the end of the hall dragged a ghostly trail across his vision. He didn't blink. He just stood by the door, listening.

Inside the office, Greene pushed a folder across the desk.

"The new treatment plan. Sign here, and we can begin immediately."

Avery picked up the pen, her hand hovering over the line. She flipped to the second page. A line of fine print caught her eye: Data usage rights transfer.

"What is this?"

"Standard clause."

"There is nothing standard about transferring my research data for a patient’s treatment."

"Hospital policy—"

"This isn't policy." Avery slammed the folder shut. "Who are you working for?"

Greene’s professional smile curdled. He took off his glasses, polished them slowly, and put them back on.

"Dr. St. Clair, your brother’s account is frozen. If you don’t sign, he misses his dose today. Think very carefully about his life."

The door flew open.

Dominic walked in, his presence instantly shrinking the room. He sat across from Greene as if he owned the building.

Greene’s face paled, then reset into a mask of feigned ignorance. "And you are...?"

"You know exactly who I am," Dominic said, his voice a low, lethal silk. "You’ve known since your first day in this dirty business."

Greene said nothing.

"That data transfer," Dominic said, sliding the folder back toward the doctor. "Tell me who the end-user is."

"I have no idea what you’re talking about—"

"You have thirty seconds." Dominic leaned back, his eyes cold and predatory. "After that, I can’t guarantee what my men will do to your friends in this building."

Greene’s fingers twitched.

"Twenty seconds."

Greene looked at Avery, then at the monster sitting across from him. He took off his glasses and set them trembling on the desk.

"I only know a codename," Greene whispered. "Devil."

Avery felt a chill settle in her bones. Dominic didn't move, but his eyes darkened.

Suddenly, Greene’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and turned the color of ash.

CRASH!

The office window exploded inward. Glass shrapnel rained down. Avery dove for cover, a stray shard slicing a thin, stinging line across her cheek.

She looked up. A figure in a black hoodie and a tactical mask stood on the shattered windowsill, a suppressed weapon leveled at her.

"Don't move," the figure rasped.

"Wenger said we have to bring Avery back alive."