Page 9 of They Will Burn

He laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound. “No. You?”

“Not even a little bit,” I reply, watching as the cars turn around, heading toward the road in a convoy. I take a few seconds before I follow, keeping some distance between us so they don’t immediately notice me trailing them. “How’s Bishop?”

“He has a nasty concussion, but he’ll be okay in a couple of days.”

I nod even though I know he can’t see me. We’re going to need all hands on deck to get Camilla back, and now that we can’t trust Kaos, we can’t afford to be missing him as well.

“We’re on the move. I’ll call you back once I figure out where they’re taking her.”

“If I’m on a call, just shoot me a text.”

I end the call and change lanes, ensuring I keep the same distance as we drive further into the city. It’s early on a Friday morning, the sun just starting to peek between the high-rise buildings.

Fatigue is beginning to weigh on me, but it will be a long time before I consider closing my eyes. The idea of climbing into bed without Camilla has my skin itching and my stomach churning. She’s the only thing that’s ever kept the nightmares at bay, and while I’ve tried not to analyze that too much, now that I’m faced with the possibility, I may have to start.

The cars pull up out front of Davenport’s building, and I park my car a few spots down from them, keeping myself as inconspicuous as possible.

He’d be an idiot if he didn’t know at least one of us was following him, but he doesn’t bother looking around as he climbs out of the back seat of one of the cars.

Camilla’s tiny body is dragged out of the backseat, and I grip the steering wheel harder to keep myself rooted in place.

She’s still dressed in only my old band shirt and her tiny fucking sleep shorts, the same ones I’ve thought about tearing from her more times than I can count. Her feet are bare, and the protective instincts only she seems to drag to the surface flare to life. It may be February, but the early mornings in New York are still cold and the streets are filthy.

Her eyes dart around, and when they settle on my car, there’s a moment where I swear the tension melts from her shoulders. She has to know we’re coming for her, but there’s a part of me that’s terrified she’ll blame us all for Kaos’s mistakes. As long as she’s safe, I don’t give a fuck if she hates me, that’s an issue I can tackle once she’s back in my arms where she belongs, hidden behind more security than the fucking White House.

She’ll be lucky if I ever let her out of the complex again after this.

Camilla drags her attention away from my car and follows Davenport, her eyes trained on the ground as she walks. I fucking hate seeing her bow to anyone. My woman was born to lead like the fucking queen she is, and seeing her head hanging low is as much as a kick to the stomach as her walking into another man’s home.

Don’t worry, Little Lamb. I’ll get you home soon.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CAMILLA

Ikeep my eyes trained to the ground as I follow Charles through the grand foyer of his apartment building and ignore the looks that are shot my way.

I must look a sight in my pajamas, my hair a mess, and trapped between Charles and three of his personal guards, but I don’t care what others think of me right now. All that matters is making my escape plan.

When I noticed Kovu’s car on the street, I swear my entire body relaxed, but I refuse to wait for a man to come save me. I learned a long time ago that I’m my only salvation, and there’s a reason why relying on others never came easy to me.

We pile into what appears to be a private elevator, given the solitary button and the keycard access, and I press my back against the far wall, trying to appear calm despite the panic running rampant in my chest.

I’m walking into the belly of the beast.

It’s not the same as when I woke up in the complex with the men of the Legion, because this time it’s my own two feet that are carrying me.

No one says a word as the elevator climbs to what I assume is the top floor, but the tension rolling off each of them is palpable.

My bare feet slap against the marble tiles as I take in the space I’m being led into. The ceilings are high, a staircase is set to the left, which I can only assume leads to the bedrooms, and a grand, expansive living area is sprawled in front of me. But it’s the color scheme that almost makes my eyes roll. Why do powerful men always think pure white everything and ugly art pieces will make them seem even more powerful? All I see when I look around is someone with more money than sense.

“Welcome home, Camilla,” Charles croons.

“This isn’t my home,” I snap, wrapping my arms around myself as an extra layer of defense between us.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he closes the distance between us, and I force myself to remain rooted in place.

Don’t back down. Don’t flinch. Don’t show weakness.

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