Page 14 of Bound By Blood and Lies

She isn’t a woman.

She’s the devil.

And she hurt my Tinkerbell.

The blade glides across her throat in one clean motion. Her body jerks once. The blood comes fast and bright as it spills over my hand, across the front of her clothes, and tracks neatly toward the drain we built for this purpose. Her eyes lose focus within seconds as terror fades into vacancy. The tension drains from her frame and she slumps against the restraints. Quinn’s head lolls forward as what’s left of her spills quietly away.

“Right,” Riggs exhales. “Bags or burn?”

“Bags. I hate the smell of burning bodies,” Victor says as he is starts moving toward the cleanup supplies. Felix looks at me as Atlas scrambles to help Victor.

“You okay?” Atlas calls out and I give a firm nod, not sure if he’s asking because of Fae or because I killed a woman.

“We’re bringing her home,” Felix states, staring at me like it’s the only possibility.

“Yes, we are,” I nod as I wipe the blade clean on a cloth and slide it back into place.

The room begins to move around me. Plastic sheeting crinkles, gloves snap on, quiet instructions exchanged like this is just another job. But it isn’t. Not this time. This isn’t about territory or power or reputation. This is about Fae. I turn away from Quinn’s lifeless body and look toward the door, already mapping the drive in my head. Every mile between us feels like an insult.

They can run. They can hide. They can stack miles and secrets between us. It won’t matter. The world is smaller than they think and I am far more patient than they are prepared for. To quote Marvin, ‘baby there ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough, ain’t no river wide enough, to keep me from getting to you,’Fae.

CHAPTER 5

ROMAN

Rain hammers the windscreen hard enough to blur the world into just water and light. The wipers fight it in fast, brutal sweeps. My hands are locked on the steering wheel. I can feel the vibration of the engine through the column in a low, steady thrum that keeps time with the bass pulsing from the speakers as‘Castle by Halsey’plays on the radio.

The address is burned into my memory as I keep repeating it in my head.Rosebank Cottage, Melford Road, Sudbury.If she’s here that means for the last thirty-five days, she’s been only twenty minutes from me. Twenty minutes yet a world away. Fear creeps in at the thought. It’s not the fear that she isn’t there, but the fear of what I will find if she is. Because what if Fae doesn’t come back the same? What if he has damaged her when I’ve just been twiddling my thumbs? I’m not foolish. I know what captivity does. I know what men like Fisher do. I know how they take pieces that don’t grow back. But I also know Fae. Her strength isn’t soft. It doesn’t crumble. It adapts. It is the kind that survives by turning itself into a weapon. I have to hope that when I find her, she’s not only alive but still sharp too.

If I were a better man, I’d tell myself she deserves a choice when she comes home. I’d prepare to stand back. To let herdecide what I am to her after this. Maybe captivity will have reshaped her into something even she doesn’t recognise. Maybe she won’t want softness. Maybe she won’t want me. The problem is, I’m not a better man. And I’m not letting her go. I will bring her home by whatever means necessary. I will kneel if that’s what she needs. I will bleed if she needs proof. I will take her anger and hold it steady; let it scorch through me without flinching if that’s what convinces her she isn’t alone in it. And Fisher… My grip tightens until my knuckles throb and the leather creaks beneath my hands.

When I get to him, there will be no theatre.

Just consequence.

The sat nav announces a turn pulling me out of my thoughts and I take it too fast. The tyres hiss on wet asphalt and Victor swears under his breath. I push the car harder as the rain grows louder and the world around me is reduced to nothing but black trees and white lines. But there is a steady certainty in my chest.

We are coming for you, Tinkerbell.

Atlas’ van is parked just off the lane where it is half hidden in the hedges as the trees lean in. It looks like it always does when we do this. Unremarkable from the outside, just another vehicle left in the wrong place at the wrong time. I pull in behind it and kill the engine. The silence that follows is so loud it suffocates me as the rain keeps tapping against the roof. Cracking my neck, I open the door and step out before the cold slams into my chest.

Felix stands near the back doors of the van with his hood up and his shoulders squared. Beside him, Atlas is crouched slightly as his hands move whilst he sets up the receiver. He glances upat me as I make my way over. Victor and Riggs climb out of my car and Riggs lifts his face to the rain before squinting at it.

“Love this weather,” he deadpans. “Really sets the mood for murder.”

“Focus,” Felix responds in a clipped tone.

“I’m focused. I’m always focused. I just also like to complain.” Riggs holds up both hands and flashes us his megawatt smile.

Atlas opens the back doors of the van wider for us and we pile in. Inside, the van is exactly as I remember. It is stripped bare of anything that isn’t useful. Matte black walls. One side taken up by mounted monitors; four small screens and one central. Atlas drops into the folded chair like it’s his living room as his fingers fly across his keyboard. Felix and Riggs twist in their seats up front as they angle their bodies to see the screens. Victor stands just behind me with his arms folded and his eyes steady.

“Drone is up, lads,” Atlas mumbles without looking up. The clicking of his fingers on his keyboard sounds like individual gunshots in the otherwise quiet space.

A faint mechanical hum threads through the rain as the drone feed sharpens into focus. Grey-scale fields emerge first. Followed by hedgerows bending under the weight of water. Then it finds it…the cottage. It sits back from the lane like it’s deliberately withdrawn, half-swallowed by trees that lean inward as if guarding it. The thatched roof sags slightly in the middle, thick and uneven as moss clings to the ridge. The chimney rises solidly against the storm as the brickwork is slick and shiny.

One upstairs window glows faintly amber but the rest of the house is pitch black and my heart skips a beat at what that might mean. My jaw sets as I study the upstairs light and my mind is already mapping entry points and blind spots. If she’s in there, she’s about to be brought home and I shiver at the thought.

This is the closest we’ve been in over a month