That was my breaking point. I stepped forward, fully intending to kill him for suggesting Emma's life was more worthy than Claire's.
“I’m going with Mason whether you go or not! Claireisworth it, and if you haven't figured out you can't tell me what to do by now, you're stupider than you look!” Emma shouted at him with such strength that she instantly became one of my favorite people. She loved my wife, and that made her my people.
“We're leaving in ten minutes.”
I left the room and went to grab enough weapons, anticipating an all-out battle. I locked the armory behind me, sure that Claire wouldn't be a fan of this particular room. I marched out of the house, satisfied with the frenzied bustle of people moving around the property. A fleet of vehicles lined the driveway, and Hector stood beside a group of his men.
I walked up to him and reached out, shaking his hand, “Thank you for helping me, Hector.”
“Thank you for being the one who's going to kill the bastard.” There was a genuine smile on his face, and despite my anguish, I was glad the relationship was salvageable. I needed his manpower to get Claire back. As she said, he was my most powerful ally.
I left Hector, moving between the men and the vehicles, taking stock of everything and everyone. James and Emma emerged from the house. She held his hand as he dragged her to one of the cars. I took the one in front with Vick and Lawrence.
I was pure determination as we pulled away. I watched our convoy leave with us, and I only hoped it would be enough. It had to.
“What’s the plan?” Victor asked.
“The same as before. We're going in. If we don't find my wife, I'm burning the place to the ground with all of them inside.”
“What if your father’s not inside?” His obsidian eyes were deceptively calm.
“Then they should have chosen a different side.”
Chapter 23
Claire
Claire
I had been alone for a long time, though I couldn’t be surehowlong. I spent much of it sleeping, further skewing my already flawed perception of the passing minutes. There was nothing in this room to help me keep the time and no regular intervals of meals. I had no window to tell if it was day or night to plan an escape. Once, someone other than Mila opened the door and pushed through a frozen Swedish meatball dinner with a lump of ice still in the middle. I only realized after the closing door woke me that I was already alone.
My empty stomach ached enough that I ate it, the crunchy lump of ice noodles and all. Unfortunately, they left only one cup of water, which seemed unusually cruel as I reached the bottom of the glass without touching the extent of my thirst. That glass was the closest thing I had to a weapon. I'd been through the boxes, and there was nothing helpful among them aside from the warm sweater I now wore. I didn't even have the prongs of a fork to defend myself with, seeing as they gave me a spoon to chip apart my dinner.
I bounced the cup lightly in my hand, judging the weight. “Fuck,” definitely not heavy enough to do real damage. Of course it would hurt if I smashed it over your head, but it wouldn't buy me more than a couple of seconds and a much angrier attacker.
I put the glass down and lay my head against the wall. I thought about Mila and the things she told me. If Mason’s father was dead, who was doing this, and why? Howcouldhis father be dead? Mason always spoke of David like he were the Devil himself, pure evil and unconquerable. Whenever he told me he needed to defeat his father, no matter how much or little he shared, I saw the doubt and fear in his eyes. Mason believed the man was too great a nemesis. So, how could David be dead?
None of it made any sense, and my mind ran in circles. My head still ached terribly, but I could think more efficiently, and my thoughts consistently drifted to Mason. How worried he must be, and how upset. I considered the sentiment dramatic when he told me he didn't want to die not being married to me. But then again, I thought the same thing when he warned me someone from his past might try to hurt me, and look how that went—twice.
After all, someone from his pastshotme, even if it wasn’t for the reasons he imagined. And now I was locked in his potentially dead father’s basement, dehydrated and concussed.
I thought I heard footsteps outside my door, and my heart leaped into my throat. Maybe Mila got out again.Oh my god, what if she has water? What if we can escape?
The door pushed open, revealing a much brighter light that initially burned my eyes. I blinked, adjusting to the sight of the man standing in the doorway.
“Good evening, Claire. Have you enjoyed yourdinner?” there was an amused lilt to his smooth voice. I didn’t recognize it, and I strained to see the details of his face.
He was shockingly handsome, with brown hair and brown eyes. His features were neat, symmetrical, and almost clinical. He had an upscale artsy vibe, with a floppy haircut that must have cost a lot. That was an intentional choice to make him look more approachable. His clothes were tailored perfectly to him despite having a more casual vibe than the suits Mason and company usually wore. It was like putting a clown nose on a lion. The downright evil expression on his face told me everything I needed to know about this man.
True terror slithered down my spine. One thing I knew without a doubt was that he was not David Sharp, the sixty-year-old man who uncannily resembled my husband.
“My dinner?” I asked dumbly, trying to hide how my thoughts were flying or at least the direction they were moving.Can I count back how long it had been since they fed me?I didn't remember—what a useless endeavor.
“Well, it was close enough to dinner to call it that. Although it had been so long since I fed you any meal, that was technically breakfast.” Oh, so he was an asshole as well as evil, making jokes about starving me to my face. “Have you been enjoying the accommodations? You must feel right at home in this crap heap.” His eyes slid over me again, and I had never felt so objectified and so undesired at once.
I looked him up and down, swallowing hard as I tried to think of the best way to handle the situation. I lived through one sick bastard; I could take another. At least, I hoped I could. What Charles Gains wanted from me was sick but basic. He liked to kill women who looked like me and wanted to fuck my corpse. I didn't know what this man wanted. For once in my life, I did what Mason had been begging me all along. I trusted him and took his warning seriously. This man took me to hurt him. How did I handle that?
Anger. I realized, as I saw him watching me with anticipation, that, if he wanted Mason to suffer, my fear and pain were what he wanted. My anger would give Mason strength.