All Chapters of OWNED IN THE DARK: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

MATHEW I stood by the window of the bedroom, the glass cool against my forehead. The house was entirely silent, a suffocating contrast to the absolute chaos of the conservatory we had left behind hours ago. My hands were steady now, the adrenaline that had kept my trigger finger twitching against Maggie’s forehead finally burning down into a low, smoldering ache. I had cleaned the soot from my face, washed the smell of cordite and spilled tea from my skin, but the phantom weight of my sidearm still lingered in the palm of my right hand.Then, I heard the heavy, uneven thud of his boots on the hardwood staircase.Mathew didn't knock. He didn't have to. When the door opened, the air in the room instantly shifted, filling with the scent of rain and the sharp, unmistakable taste of dried blood.He looked like a man who had gone to hell, torn the gates off their hinges, and walked back through the fire just to see if anyone was looking. His black combat shirt was torn open at the collar,

MATHEW The morning light filtered through the small transparent windows of the cabin, cutting through the haze of the previous night like an unwelcome wake-up call. If our estate in New York was a fortress built on blood and stone, this place was the exact opposite: cramped, cluttered, and currently overflowing with too many people who knew how to kill a man with their bare hands.My ribs gave a sharp, agonizing thud against my lungs as I tried to stretch. I groaned, rubbing a hand over my face. The black tactical gauze was still wrapped around my right knuckles, stiff with dried blood. The smell of rain from the conservatory had faded, replaced by the rich, domestic aroma of brewing coffee and frying bacon.I moved through the narrow hallway, my six-foot-four frame feeling entirely too large for the low ceilings of Ciara’s safehouse. When I rounded the corner into the kitchenette, I stopped dead in my tracks.Sitting at the small wooden table, cradling a mug of coffee with the despe

MATHEWThe van doors hadn’t even slammed shut on James’s departure before the hairs on the back of my neck stood up."Mathew?" Ciara asked, her shoulder still pressed against my arm as we walked toward the gravel road. She felt the sudden, rigid shift in my posture. Her hand immediately went to the side of her coat, her fingers searching for the familiar shape of the weapon she wasn't carrying today."Stay behind me," I grated, my voice dropping into that low, gravelly vibration.I didn't look at her. My eyes were already scanning the perimeter. The production crew was scattered near the two white utility vans parked where the wooden pier met the gravel turnaround. Two technicians were rolling up heavy black power cables; another was carrying a silver reflector panel toward an open side door and then there was the runner.He was moving down the gravel incline from the main road, his boots skidding slightly on the loose stones. At a glance, he looked like a late arrival from the local

MATHEW The smell of old coffee and vanilla didn’t wash the copper taste of adrenaline out of my mouth. Every breath I took dragged against my cracked ribs like broken glass, the thick gauze Mary had wrapped around my shoulder already feeling tight and wet.I looked down at Ciara, her forehead pressed against the hollow of my throat. She was my anchor, the only clean thing left in a world covered in soot and blood. But as I stared over her shoulder at Adam, watching the peaceful rise and fall of our son's chest, I became numb.My father had sent an assassin. Not to negotiate, not to threaten, but to erase us. He had reached out from his golden cage to touch my family, and in doing so, he had signed his own death warrant."Stay here," I rumbled, my voice a low vibration against Ciara’s hair. I gently disengaged my arms from around her, the movement sending a sharp, white-hot spike of agony through my upper back. I didn't flinch. I couldn't afford to. "Carlista is still here but Louis i

MATHEW The iron in my hands was the only thing that felt real anymore.The local gym I’d found on the outskirts of town wasn’t like the pristine, high-end athletic clubs in Manhattan where Alexander and my father used to sweat in tailored activewear. This place was a concrete bunker. It smelled of rusted iron, stale sweat, and cheap chalk. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered with a dull, irritating hum, casting harsh shadows across the rubber-matted floor. It was exactly what I needed. I lay back on the flat bench, my boots planting firmly into the floor. My right shoulder was still stiff, the jagged laceration from the assassin’s nitrate wire a tight, pulling ache beneath my dark gray t-shirt. The stitches Ciara had put in were mostly holding, though a faint, dull throb pulsed through my upper back with every movement. My cracked ribs grumbled a protest as I arched my spine, settling my shoulder blades against the vinyl pad.I gripped the knurled steel of the barbell. Three h