Page 12 of Depraved

"Any updates?" I asked.

Alex shook his head, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. "Nothing yet. No sign of Gage or the mystery blonde on any of the security feeds." He sat back with a tired sigh, running his palm over his beard.

Layla stirred on the bed, mumbling something incoherent. Both Alex and I froze, watching her. She rolled over, arm flung out across the empty space beside her, then settled back into sleep. I exhaled slowly, ignoring the pang in my chest. Turning back to Alex, I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

"You should get some rest," I said quietly. "I'll take watch until Sarge gets back."

“I'm fine. If we can just?—"

"Alex." I clipped, silencing whatever bogus excuse he was about to give me. "Sleep. Now. You're no good to anyone if you're dead on your feet."

He glared at me for a moment, then sighed in defeat. "Fine. Wake me in four hours."

I nodded, knowing I'd let him sleep longer. As he stumbled towards the couch, letting Layla sprawl out on the bed. I took his place at the laptop. He paused with a blanket in his hand, and I met his eyes over the screen, arching a brow.

“If that was too much for you,” he said slowly, something like guilt simmering in his eyes, “it doesn’t have to happen again.”

A hollow ache bloomed in my chest. Only Alex truly knew how deep the scars really went. Only he knew of the nightmares that plagued me even when I was awake. How close I was to slipping into insanity. He’d never push me further than I was willing to go.

"It's fine," I said, my voice low and gravelly. "I can handle it."

Alex studied me for a long moment, skepticism evident in the furrow of his brow. I could see the gears turning in his mind, weighing whether or not to push the issue. Finally, he nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer.

As he turned to settle onto the couch, I spoke again, the words tumbling from my lips before I could stop them. "It's only her."

Layla whimpered in her sleep and both of us stilled again. My fingers twitched with the urge to comfort her, to brush the hair from her face and whisper that everything would be alright. But I knew better. Nothing would be alright until we found Gage and made him pay.

Alex didn’t say anything else. He simply nodded. Because what else was there to fucking say?

I stared at the laptop screen, my mind wandering from the endless feed of hotel guests. The quiet hum of the air conditioning and Alex's eventual snoring faded into the background as memories of that night at the docks surfaced.

That night played on repeat in my head—the shock and pain in Layla's eyes as the truth came crashing down. The way her voice had cracked when she ordered Gage to run. I'd seen her face down death without flinching. I’d seen the aftermath of her madness, but in that moment, she'd looked utterly shattered.

My hands clenched into fists, nails digging crescents into my palms. I imagined wrapping those hands around Gage's throat, squeezing until the light faded from his eyes. I wanted to make him suffer—to feel even a fraction of the pain he'd inflicted on Layla.

I would destroy him bit by bit, starting with his fingers and breaking them one by one. Then I'd move on to his arms, carving intricate designs into his skin with my dullest knife. I would relish in his screams, taking my time until he begged for death. Only then would I give him the peace of death, but not before he fully comprehended the magnitude of his betrayal.

The intensity of my bloodlust surprised me. I was no stranger to violence. I'd been molded into a weapon, honed to kill without hesitation. But this...this was personal. Raw. Primal.

My eye drifted to her sleeping form again, tracing the graceful curve of her spine, the scrawling script tattoos down it.

It stops hurting when you’re dead inside.

How fucking right she was.

CHAPTER 5

Sarge

Islouched at the hotel bar, nursing my third drink of the night. The amber liquid burned a familiar path down my throat, but did little to dull the ache in my chest. Ice clinked softly against glass as I swirled the tumbler, watching the play of light through the crystal.

I should have been upstairs. Should have been the one making Layla moan, watching her come undone beneath me. Instead, I was down here drowning my sorrows like some lovesick teenager. Pathetic.

The bartender approached, eyeing my nearly empty glass. "Another, sir?"

I grunted an affirmative, sliding the glass towards him. As he poured, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored bar back. My beard was scruffier than usual, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. I looked every bit the grizzled old man I sometimes felt like.

Christ, what was I doing? Layla was half my age, a force of nature barely contained in human form. And here I was, pining after her like some goddamn fool. She'd made it clear where westood—friends—partners, nothing more. It was my fault though, so I couldn’t even blame her.

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