Page 54 of Doc's Decision

He clears his throat delicately, dark eyes impassive as he takes in the sight of a bunch of rough and tumble bikers invading his pristine domain.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he intones in a snooty British accent. "Mr. Bernard has been expecting you. Please, do come in."

He steps back and gestures toward the open door in clear invitation.

I glance at Damon, brows raised.

He nods curtly, swinging off his bike.

We follow suit, the quiet suddenly deafening without the rumble of engines.

My hand drifts to the piece tucked in my waistband as we stride forward, boots thudding heavily on the polished marble.

Time to see what dear ol' gramps has to say.

I pray he's got some answers.

We stalk inside, the butler leading us through an opulent foyer that reeks of old money.

Crystal chandeliers, antique furniture, oil paintings in gilded frames—this place is a fucking mausoleum.

He shows us into a wood-paneled study, all dark leather and the stench of cigars.

Perched in a wingback chair like a king on his goddamn throne is Mr. Bernard.

Steel gray hair, hawkish nose, beady eyes that gleam with strength.

He takes a long drag on a cigar, smoke curling from his thin lips. "It's about bloody time," he growls, his posh accent dripping condescension. "I've done all the hard work and now you lot need to go get my granddaughter."

Damon steps forward, muscles coiled tight. "You know where she is."

It's not a question.

Bernard scoffs. "Well, do you think I wouldn't? Of course, I do. Her mother, that spiteful bitch, has gotten her holed up in one of the family's 'therapy facilities.' Load of rubbish. I’m too old to get her myself, so you all need to do the hard work and get my Sera out of there!"

My blood runs cold at the implications.

Seraphina locked away, at the mercy of whatever twisted "treatment" her psycho mother has subjected her to.

Bile rises in my throat and my hands clench into fists.

I want to put them through her mother’s face.

And if I want to do that, I can only imagine what Turmoil wants to do.

"Where is she?" Damon's tone could cut steel. "Name. Address. Anything else is a waste of our fucking time."

Bernard slowly stubs out his cigar, each movement deliberate.

He reaches into his suit jacket and withdraws a folded slip of paper, holding it out between two fingers.

"Northern Nevada. Off the beaten path. I trust you boys can handle the rest." His thin mouth curves in a grim smile. "Oh, and one more thing..."

Turmoil steps forward and snatches the paper from his wrinkled fingers. "What kind of sick 'therapy facility' is this?"

Anger vibrates through his voice.

Bernard leans back, appraising him with cold eyes. "The kind designed to correct...undesirable behaviors. To beat the deviancy out of someone. What do they call it now? Ah yes, conversion therapy. Her mother is relentless. Go get her, boys."

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