Damien POV The warehouse air was thick with the smells of rust, damp, and the sharp, coppery tang of blood. My footsteps echoed, a deliberate rhythm on the cold concrete, announcing my arrival. They had him in the centre, tied to a metal chair, already a broken puppet of bruises and cuts. My men had done their work, but it was just the opening act. The main performance was mine. A cold, familiar fury was humming in my veins at the spy, but beneath it, hotter and more personal, was the memory of her—Rachel. Her hands on my photograph. Her eyes seeing a boy I buried. That betrayal was a fresh wound, and this traitor before me was a convenient punching bag to take the fury away. I dismissed my men with a glance. The space around us cleared, leaving only the three of us: me, the snivelling wreck in the chair, and Vance, a silent, bloody shadow in my sight. Thanks to the old man's trap, we had finally captured the wolf in plain sight. And a
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