Page 38 of Under His Protection

“What’s going on?” I manage to stutter.

“Nothing,” he hisses, “just some—disagreements—”

I stumble after him as we navigate a maze of lit corridors, each turn making me more nervous.

He throws open two massive metal doors, the sound reverberating through the corridor. They look like the entrance to a grand conference hall, but instead of a polished boardroom, I’m met with a cold, sterile space. He shoves me inside, his grip bruising my arm.

The air is filled with the smell of dust and something else, a metallic tang that makes my stomach churn. The fluorescent lights reveal rows of chairs lined against the walls and long, rectangular tables standing ready. They look like they’re waiting for a meeting or a gathering, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong.

My eyes are drawn to the corner of the room, a chilling sight that freezes me in place. My legs turn to lead, rooted to the floor. A pile of bodies lies there, twisted and still, like discarded dolls. A serpent, its scales permanently etched in a tattoo on the arm of one, glints in the sharp overhead light. It’s all Dexter’s men, their lives snuffed out, their bodies scattered like debris. Blood has seeped into the cold linoleum, staining the floor a dark crimson. Their eyes stare blankly at the ceiling.

Nausea washes over me; the smell of blood is in the air. I recoil, but Dexter’s grip tightens on my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. He looks beyond me, his gaze fixed on something unseen, a target I can’t identify.

A figure emerges from the shadows, rubbing their eyes as if waking from a deep sleep. My heart lurches. It’s Cole. He looks disheveled, his hair a mess, his clothes rumpled, and his eyes are clouded with worry. He’s just like me, caught in a game he didn’t expect.

He descends the stairs, his movements slow and measured. A smile stretches across his face, but it isn’t the smile I’m used to. It’s a strained smirk, almost apologetic.

“Don’t kill him,” I plead, my voice choked. “He didn’t do anything, he’s just a designer I work with. Please, Dexter, let him go.”

But as he gets closer, something shifts. His smile widens, turning into a chilling grin. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting his face in a harsh glare, revealing a depth of darkness I’d never noticed before. His eyes have turned cold and calculating.

“Bravo, Ava,” he says, his voice a silky purr that sends shivers through me. “You really are a good person. Too bad you’re surrounded by so much evil.”

He pauses, his gaze lingering on Dexter, who stands frozen. “Isn’t that right, Dexter?” Cole continues, tilting his head, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Didn’t she try to save you, too? Tried to convince you that you were better than this, that you could change?”

Dexter swallows hard, unable to meet Cole’s gaze. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

Cole turns back to me, his smile turning sharp, almost cruel. “But some people can’t be saved, Ava. Some people are just born bad.”

He steps closer, and I step back, a primal fear taking root in my gut. He adjusts his tie, the smooth white silk a stark contrast to the grim scene. My eyes dart to the black feather tucked into the band of his belt. It all clicks.

Cole is the Raven.

A wave of ice floods my veins, chilling me to the bone. The feather in Michelle's hair, Sarah's letter—the pieces of the puzzle snap together with a horrifying clarity. He was playing with me, toying with my fears, watching me squirm. A puppet master pulling my strings, orchestrating my terror.

He sees the recognition in my eyes, the dawning horror, and lets out a low chuckle. “I know, it’s a little dramatic, being The Raven and all,” he says, reaching me. He caresses my cheek with the feather and places it between my breasts. The touch freezes me in place, a premonition of something far more terrifying than I could have imagined.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on the feather nestled against my skin. “Did you ever suspect? Or were you too blinded by your precious Alexander?”

My stomach churns, my stomach’s content threatening to come back up.

Cole? The man who shared coffee with me, who offered design advice? The man who— assaulted me? The room spins, and I clutch at the table nearby for support. It can’t be. It can’t be him. He’s the freakin’ owner of Spectrum Design.

My words are trapped in my throat. I am paralyzed, unable to speak.

“I never did tell you about the farm I volunteer at,” Cole says, his voice silky smooth. “It’s a bird farm. I believe Michelle and Sarah got my lovely feathers. I was saving the biggest one for you.”

“Now,” he says, his eyes as hard as steel. “Let’s talk about your role in all of this.”

The world shrinks to a single point: Cole. Dexter, the guns, the crimson-stained floor—they all fade into a blurry background hum. My eyes snag on the pile of bodies in the corner. They lie in a tangled heap, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Dead. They’re all dead, and something inside me screams that Cole is the one who did it.

From the shadows behind him, a small army emerges. They appear from the stairs, their faces steely. They’re all armed. He’s built a force, and he just took down Dexter’s men.

Cole follows my gaze. “They were trouble, Ava,” he says, his voice a soft caress that somehow feels more menacing than a shout. “Traitors, really. Siding with Dexter instead of me— their real Tato.”

A shudder courses through me. Tato? Tato means father in one of the Slavic languages, I think. What the hell does that mean? My mind struggles to make sense of it all.

Dexter, pale and slick with sweat, raises his hands in surrender. “I’ll go now. I got her for you. Like we agreed.” He looks around nervously, his eyes darting from Cole to the figures silently filling the conference room. “I delivered her—”

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