Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I release the bars and reach for the latch.
I can do this. I have no choice.
Silently, I cross the sidewalk, and V turns to open the back door for me.
I freeze as soon as I see the interior. I swear I can smell Kane’s uniquely spicy scent in the air.
Stop being so dramatic, Temperance. Get in the fucking car.
I berate myself for my weakness, just like I’ve berated myself for everything else over the last month. If I’d had a whip, my skin would be ribbons.
I get in the car and squeeze my eyes shut as he closes me inside. On the seat next to me is a black hood.
No fucking way.
When the front door closes, V grunts and my gaze snaps to the rearview mirror. He nods, and I know what he wants. He wants me to put it on.
Just like Kane made me wear the beanie.
“And if I don’t?” I ask.
He points to the gate I just came out.
“I hate you,” I tell him. It’s juvenile and makes me a bitch, but I don’t care.
Memories come tumbling back as I grab the black hood and pull it over my head.
“So, where to? The bat cave?”
My naive quip of a question from weeks ago sucker punches me in the gut as the world goes dark.
Now the fucking bat cave is mine, and all I want to do is burn it to the ground.And maybe I will.
The drive to Mount’s compound is quick, as I expected. I know it’s in the French Quarter, but I’ve never been there. It’s not exactly a place people are invited to.
When V opens the back door, I reach for the hood, and when I don’t hear a grunt, I tug it off.
He nods and jerks his chin to the side, indicating I should get out. I follow him through a door and up a windowless set of stairs and down several corridors. It reminds me of the club.
No. No, it does not. It’s nothing like it.
When he pushes a hidden button and the wall in front of us moves, I jerk back.
Now, this reminds me more of a bat cave.
Again, a slice of betrayal shears through me. I follow V and find myself in some kind of library office. Heavy bookcases line the walls, and a large wooden desk dominates the space in front of me.
Mount sits behind the desk, scrawling something on a piece of paper before he folds it and shoves it in an envelope.
A soft whoosh comes from behind me, and I whip around to see Scar exit through the spinning fireplace door.
What the hell?
I’ve finished surveying the contents of the room—two leather chairs, a few lamps, and a sideboard with decanters of liquor—when Mount finally looks up.
“I don’t take meeting requests, Ms. Ransom. I’m humoring you only for the sake of my wife. Tread carefully.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d be shaking in my boots, literally. But now? I have nothing to lose. Absolutely nothing.