I agreed with everything but the last two.
I might be stepping straight into hell—but I’m not doing it unprepared.
I kept him talking—stalling, probing, pretending to bargain—until he finally sent an address, likely convinced he’d backed me into a corner. By the time the location came through, most of my head start was gone. I pulled it up and nearly snorted out loud.
Of course it’s by the pier.
I swear these assholes have never had an original idea in their lives. We should have just swept the entire waterfront from the beginning. It would have saved days of guesswork and bloodshed.
But now I know exactly where I’m going.
Exactly what I’m stepping into.
Exactly what the cost may be.
And I walk toward it anyway.
Before I send my last text, I double-check everything on my body that matters. My fingers slide down my thighs, brushing over the hidden seams I stitched into these pants months ago. Two rip-away slits, one on each leg, each hiding a blade forged for one purpose. My special knives. The ones meant for men like Dean. The ones that have never, not once, missedtheir mark. I make sure they are tight against my skin, secure, invisible. Because the first thing these bastards are going to do is take my phone… and then strip me of every weapon they think I have. Let them try. Let them believe they’ve disarmed me.
They never look deep enough.
The road to the warehouse is silent except for the slap of my boots against broken asphalt and the distant hum of water hitting the pier walls. The gate ahead is ajar, rust eating through the metal like rot in bone. It looks abandoned. Forgotten. Perfect for a monster.
As I cross the threshold, I lift my phone and type.
I’m here.
The reply comes before I take another step.
Walk to the front entrance. Set your phone and weapons down.
A laugh bubbles up in my chest. If only he knew.
I walk toward the entrance exactly as instructed, slow, controlled, my pulse steady even though every survival instinct is screaming. I set my phone on the ground, then shrug out of my jacket and let the visible weapons clatter beside it—an offering for anyone watching. The hidden blades stay where they are, pressed close to my skin, untouched and waiting. My last, honest line of defense.
The doors swing open before I can straighten.
Three men spill out like vultures.
Two of them are forgettable the moment I look at them. Sloppy stances. Heavy breathing. Hands too tight around their guns. I could slit both their throats faster than I could say “fuck you” and still have time to wipe my blade clean.
But the third one…
He steps differently. Balanced. Attentive. His eyes track me like a puzzle he’s already halfway solved. There’s training there. Real training. Private security. Military, maybe.
I could take him too. It would just cost me time. And time isn’t something I have to spare. Not yet.
So, I lower my eyes, let them believe I’m beaten, and wait.
When their hands shove me forward, I don’t resist. When they yank my arms behind me and zip tie my wrists together, I let them. The bite of plastic digs into my skin, but I barely feel it.
Because that’s the moment he appears.
A slow set of footsteps crosses the concrete, steady and full of arrogance, like the world folds around him. Then Dean steps out of the shadows.
The last time I saw him, I was bleeding onto cold stone, seventeen and small and helpless.
This time, I lift my chin.