Page 109 of Servitude to Serpents

I doubt that.

Chapter forty-four

To own is to… Grasp

Warrick

My car skids to a stop outside the one place I never saw myself going without a certain death wish. Still, here I am, my handgun out of my underarm holster and fired off in the face of the gate guard before one of my own men gets out. He barely acknowledges what I’ve done, leaning over the newlyspaghettiedhead of the man, slamming his fist on the control to open the wide gates of the Tyet compound. I don’t slow to give the slow-moving ornate thing long enough to open fully before I gun the car through it, ignoring the teeth-jarring screech of metal on metal. Stuart is abnormally quiet in the passenger seat. I’m barreling up their long drive, half a heart working double time in my chest to make up for what’s missing.Whois missing.

The barely wrapped bullet wound in my arm aches far less than the burning, molten fucking rage simmering in every fiber of my being as I jump out, shoving past the throngs of armed men who come out to meet me, their guns pointed at my face. “Stop there!”

I don’t.

Not until the slick silver door of the sprawling compound opens, the smug face of Harun appearing from inside. “It seems you need some help, Basilisk.”

Chaos erupts around me as I stalk toward him, jerking my gun out and pressing it to his head. “Is she okay?”

He lifts his hands, his eyes leaving mine for a moment, no doubt to call off the various men about to kill me. “How would I know?” He fronts, playing a dangerous fucking game with a man who just lost everything.

Again.

I cock the gun. “Is? She? Okay?”

The man sighs, rolling his eyes, as unserious as ever. It’s fucking grating on the best of days. This is not that. It has been twenty-four hours since I lost sight of her, twenty-four hours since my right hand betrayed my directive, leaving her as a fucking scapegoat. “Fit as a fiddle physically, save for some bumps, cuts, bruises, and apparently, a fair amount of bite marks. Social services stepped in three hours ago. They’re holding her in a secure hospital on a military base. Seems your reputation precedes you, even on the right side of the law.”

I drop my gun, relief filling my chest. It only allows for more of that rage to filter through. The fucking gall of anyone who thinks they could take her from me and walk away unscathed. Like they don’t know who I am, what I could…what Iwilldo to them. How I’ll eviscerate them. I’ll start with their families, and then their friends. I’ll cut down family trees, limb from limb, and still, it won’t be enough to quell this fucking hate.

“Don’t you want to know if she talked?” He asks, sounding genuinely curious.

I take a deep breath, gripping my gun tighter so he doesn’t see the way my hand shakes. “No.”

“Why?”

When I lift my head, letting our eyes meet, his widen just an inch, and I can’t find it in myself to find fault for whatever weakness he sees there. Right now, I am weak. I’m destroyed, all for her. “It wouldn’t matter. I want my men and yours outside of that hospital in the next hour. I want your assurances.”

He blows out an exaggerated puff of breath. “And only a month ago, you came to kill me. Assassinate me in the middle of a wonderful party as well. Now, you’re trusting me to keep your girl safe. What of my betrayal?”

I ignore him. “Give me your word.”

He huffs, heading inside his house, and I follow. Everything in me that spent most of my life wishing for his death prickles when being presented his back. It would be so easy, but she’s more important.

She’s everything that matters right now.

“Harun,” I warn.

“Yes. Fucking hell, you’ve never been any fun.”

I lean against one of the dark-painted walls, watching as Stuart barks at the men outside when one of Harun’s thrusts a phone into my hands. It’s a slightly out-of-focus picture, taken at an odd angle, but it’s her.

My Chloe.

I shoot him a glare when he tries to take it back, to which he raises his hands and backs away. She sits in a hospital gown, her arms wrapped around her legs as another red-headed woman speaks with her, no doubt the social services Harun mentioned. It’s the man in the back of the picture, glaring and angry, who makes my jaw clench.

I don’t wait for the chaos in the room to die down, stalking over to Harun, who is nursing a drink. “Who sold me out to the feds?”

He shakes his head. “It’s quite obvious, Serpent: the same people who sold you out the first time.”

“They’re dead.”

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