Chapter 5

Katriona

Their intoxicating scents distort the voice of reason screaming inside my head, telling me I should be ten levels of terrified—not turned on.

Focus, Kat.

Rows of uniformed monitors stretch across the wide walls. Nearly every inch of the space glows with live feeds from one shadowy room or another.

I point toward the moving screens. “So… you like your little TVs, huh? Do these people even know they’re being recorded?” My nerves kick my mouth into overdrive—always have. Apparently, my bad habits follow me straight into the devil’s lair. “Do you save the footage, go home, kick back, and watch it like porn reruns?”

A low sound—like a soft chuckle—comes from one of the men behind me.

“Do you always insult your employers?” The voice is rich, masculine, controlled. I’m getting closer to pinpointing exactly where it’s coming from.

I shake my head, biting down on my lower lip before blurting the first thought that flies to the front of my mind. “Um… no. Not really. Only when I’m led into dark rooms with mysterious voices talking down to me like some wizard behind a curtain.”

My eyes sweep the space again.

Then he steps forward.

The moment a beam of overhead light snaps on, my gaze is drawn straight to him.

Green eyes. Piercing. Magnetic. I can’t tear mine away. He’s intense, dangerous, commanding—everything I was told to avoid.

His hair is short, styled like Grey and Drake’s, but there’s something harder in the line of his jaw. While the others have their suit jackets buttoned—no doubt hiding weapons—he’s discarded his entirely. The sleeves of his crisp dress shirt are rolled up, revealing intricate tattoos that wrap both arms all the way to his wrists.

I suck in a breath.

Sylan Ward.

As enigmatic as he is lethal.

A chill dances down my spine as he steps out from the farthest corner of the room to stand directly in front of me. My body snaps out of its stunned paralysis, and I instinctively take a half-step back—straight into the solid chests of Drake and Grey. Trapped. Surrounded. A wave of raw, masculine power crashes over me, stealing my breath.

My eyes lift to Sylan’s mouth—strong, smooth. I’m weirdly fascinated by the way the right side lifts slightly higher than the left when he speaks. My attention dips to his hands, and my mind spirals down a dark path, imagining his mouth on mine… tasting the whiskey I smell on his breath as our tongues tangle.

To my complete horror—and thrill—he smiles. Like he knows what I’m thinking.

And then he touches me.

His fingers gently wrap around my arm, right below the blooming bruises that Muscles left on me earlier. Sylan turns my arm, examining the deep, purplish fingerprints marring my skin.

My head drops. I can’t look at him.

Please don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

“It’s nothing,” I mutter, rushing to cut off the question I know is coming.

Goosebumps scatter across my exposed skin. And let’s be honest—there’s not a lot of fabric covering me. These uniforms leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“Look at me, Katriona.”

I lift my gaze. His green eyes are thunderclouds, swirling with a rage that simmers just beneath the surface.

I instinctively try to pull away, but the wall of muscle behind me doesn’t budge.

“Shh,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes gently over the bruises. We stay like that for a moment—him touching, me frozen—until my heart settles back into rhythm.

“I won’t hurt you. We won’t hurt you. Now… tell us who did this to you.”

What the hell is happening to me? His voice settles inside me like a balm, as though he whispered it after making love, not while interrogating me in a surveillance dungeon.

My core clenches.

And I know I’m not imagining the heat pooling between my thighs, soaking through the tiny strip of fabric covering me.

Am I losing my damn mind?

I’ve never swooned for men—especially not men with reputations like theirs. And yet, here I am. Turned on. Flushed. Spiraling.

I snatch my arm back and cross both over my chest, trying to shield myself from the fire growing inside me.

“It doesn’t matter who did it. It’s done,” I say. “Maybe we should focus on why I’m here instead.” My words slow down instinctively. I have a strange feeling that whatever answer they give… I’ll need it just as slowly.

He dismisses my concern with a wave of his hand. “The incident downstairs is irrelevant. It won’t be mentioned again.”

“Like I said,” Drake adds. His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “You don’t need to worry about him. He won’t be touching you again.”

His voice is cold. Flat. Like this kind of retribution is nothing new to him.

“Or any other woman,” Grey says from behind, his tone just as grim.

A million questions race through my mind. But only one matters right now.

I tilt my head. “Did you kill him? For touching me?”

To keep my hands busy, I smooth them down the front of my bodice, over and over again.

I shouldn’t question them. Not these three. They’re like lions, and I’m the trembling gazelle caught in their sights. But I’ve never known how to keep my mouth shut.

My mom always said I was a glutton for punishment. Guess she was right.

I look back at them.

“Answer me. Did you kill him?”

Will they kill me, too?

None of them blink.

“We’re not in the habit of letting disrespect go unpunished in our establishments,” Sylan finally says.

I flick my gaze between them, trying to read between the lines. My stomach churns.

Is that a yes without saying it? Or just a justification?

I swallow hard. My throat feels like sandpaper. “Maybe I should go,” I whisper. I turn quickly, yanking my foot when the spike of my heel catches in the carpet. “Yeah. I don’t want to cause more trouble than I already have.”

A single finger hooks beneath the lip of my bodice and halts me mid-step.

I stop breathing.

Fear and excitement war in my chest.

Sylan traces the pad of his finger along the curve of my breast, goosebumps rising in his wake. Despite the cool air swirling through the room, my body is overheating. I brace myself, half-expecting him to tear through the ties and bare me for all to see. To take. To use. Just like they used my mother.

But he doesn’t.

He lingers.

The connection of skin against skin seems to matter more to him than power or control. I search his face for answers, but it’s as blank as stone. The only thing keeping me from falling into panic is the fact that I’m still breathing.

So, I cling to that.

And the terrifying truth that I like his touch.

I like having Drake and Grey so close.

Sylan toys with the silk bow holding my bodice together. His green eyes take in everything—the quiver of my breasts, the shallow rise and fall of my chest, the way my hardened nipples strain against the leather.

His gaze shifts to the bruise again.

Drake mutters something sharp to my right. Grey echoes him. Their voices low and furious.

It’s Sylan who speaks.

“The man who assaulted you…”

“What about him?”

“Did he act under Kane’s orders?”

I blink. Once. Twice. Then shake my head.

“No. Not exactly. But his goon didn’t seem to care that I didn’t obey fast enough.”

Kane.

Did they just say… father?

I go still. Did I say something wrong?

Do they know?

Know who I am?

Know who my father is?

God. I should’ve taken the job at the diner. Nikki swore the club owners never noticed the girls as long as they did their jobs. She swore.

I ask the one question I shouldn’t.

“How do you know my father?”

A flicker of something dark passes over Sylan’s face. His lips curl slightly. But it’s his eyes that shift into something colder, sharper.

“Everyone knows your father, mo chroí,” he says in a low murmur. “We’ve been looking for him.”

Then comes the question that lands like a punch to the gut.

“Where do you think we’ll find the devil?”

Two simple questions.

And just like that, I know I’ve stepped into something far more dangerous than I ever could’ve imagined.