ChapterTwenty-Three
Ambrose Yates opened his eyes and wished he had the ability to groan. His entire body ached, even his hair. When he tried to move his arms and legs, he tugged against restraints.
Digesting that fact, it took him a second to realize what had happened and why the fuck he was tied up.
The room was dark, windowless, and smelled of dank water. Something scurried in the distance, and it was nearly as cold in this place as it was outside for the early March spring day.
The only light flickered from a slit near the ground, under the door.
It had to be some sort of basement, or dungeon, or other kind of fucking prison to hold him against his will, far from where anyone could hear any noise.
He didn't remember being brought here, though. After finishing with the police and ensuring the female victims from his raid had made it to the safe house, he'd come to the French vampires' gaming hell.
Ambrose had watched the building a few nights before from the shadows and had noticed how mainly vampires seemed to go inside it. And not just random ones, either, but the same patrons he saw often in his uncle's establishment, ones he'd seen many times in the past.
It meant he'd be noticed if he visited the rival hell, but that had been the point. He hadn't expected anyone would try to bloody kidnap him in plain sight, since all of the witnesses would note his location and his uncle Leo would hear of it.
Plus, kidnapping Ambrose would nearly be a declaration of war with his Dark Lord uncle.
He should've listened to his valet, Jennings, and left after a half hour of halfhearted gambling and eavesdropping. But Ambrose had the knack of noticing details others didn't, mostly because when one couldn't speak, others often ignored the person, giving him time to study everyone's movements, and tells, and other clues that most people overlooked because of being distracted with words.
And it'd been a success at first. He'd soon determined the vampire in charge of the hell's day-to-day operations, one with dark hair and eyes, and an earring that was long out of fashion.
Besides his appearance, the other most noteworthy thing had been how the earring-vampire often stopped in place, closed his eyes, and remained silent a beat. That was a sign of being frozen too long without finding his fated one, when he needed to tame the rage and madness forever trying to take over.
And that was most definitely a weakness that could be utilized.
With that knowledge, he'd started to determine how many other staff members had the same sort of twitches and too long frozen-madness symptoms. He'd noted at least half of them also struggled to maintain their composures when someone had told him he needed to gamble, drink, or request a whore, or he'd need to leave.
His valet had asked for a moment, and Ambrose had let Jennings know to order him some blood in a goblet. Even though Jennings had given him a disapproving look—not for the blood as he was also a vampire, but because Ambrose was staying someplace dangerous—he knew Ambrose too well to argue.
That fucking goblet of blood had brought him down in the end.
Shortly after receiving it, he'd been ushered upstairs to a smaller, higher stakes room; wanting to see more of the place to report to his uncle, he'd gone.
After Ambrose won the game of piquet, he'd stood and excused himself. In the next second, a hidden door opened on the wall, someone shoved him through it, and all he remembered was darkness and landing on something soft before a cloth had been pressed to his nose and the world went black.
They had a bloody secret door, of course they had. And that had made it easy to drug him.
And all because he'd become so fucking overconfident and had thought to prove himself to his uncles, to his mother, and to all those who still thought of him as the mute little boy they pitied.
Because of his bloody pride and ego, Ambrose was now restrained in a dark room, and Leo might never find him.
If he did get out, he'd never fucking let his confidence of a successful auction house raid override his brain ever again.
The door swung open, and a tall, lean vampire came in, twirling a knife in his right hand. He spoke in French, but Ambrose understood him, having spent time with a French tutor when he'd been taught French Sign Language decades ago. The male growled, "My orders might be not to kill you, but I think you need a permanent reminder, something to see every day, a memory of how you were the one to start the war. The war that will destroy the paranormals of London and give us back enough females to start over properly and claim what should be ours." He stood next to where Ambrose lay. "And this magic-infused knife will ensure you carry the scars forever, frozen state or not."
And as the hot blade carved out lines on his flesh, Ambrose bucked against the restraints on his arms and legs and silently screamed.
Each slice burned, and then instantly chilled, and throbbed as if someone were stretching and releasing his skin repeatedly.
On and on it went, the French vampire laughing as he carved Ambrose up.
Eventually the pain was too much, and his last thought was he hoped his uncle didn't try to avenge his death as he fell into unconsciousness once more.