Page 11 of Don't You Pucking Dare

"You're going to wear out that footage." Caleb sprawls on the leather couch, some crime documentary droning in the background. He watches everything with that same intensity—probably why he's the only one I trust with this.

"Need to know the target." Something about her crawls under my skin—maybe the way she carries herself like she's both hiding and daring someone to notice her. Or maybe it's knowing how perfectly she'll break under my hands.

"They got it wrong." Caleb gestures at the TV where forensics teams bumble through evidence collection. "Amateur work."

"They usually do."

Jack raids the kitchen like he's preparing for hibernation. Stress eating again—always a sign he's got that itch under his skin. The dangerous kind.

"Leave some for the rest of us," I call out, claiming a beer before he can stake his territory. The familiar weight of the bottle grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of obsession.

"Party’s tonight," he says around a mouthful of what looks like an entire deli counter between bread. "Need the energy."

Caleb's eyes meet mine. "Tonight's the night."

The invitation's already planted in her bag. Now I wait, let her fear build, let her feel eyes everywhere until she's desperate for answers. I've orchestrated every detail—right down to the expensive paper that'll remind her she doesn't belong in our world.

My phone lights up with my brother’s name. Jackson Black. Even trapped in that wheelchair, he's still pulling strings.

"Talk to me."

"Did you do it?" Pain edges his voice—meds must be wearing off. "The invitation?"

I send him today's surveillance clip. "It's done. Left it in her bag. Keeping my distance, letting her feel hunted without giving her anything concrete."

"Good." Something mechanical whirs—probably adjusting his chair. The sound hits like a knife to the gut. Mybrother, once the star athlete, now trapped in that metal cage because of Rick Kemper. "Everything's ready. Just say when."

I imagine the array of torture devices he's collected, each one chosen for maximum psychological impact. "Lola Kemper won't know what hit her. Then we'll make daddy dearest watch his perfect princess fall apart."

His laugh carries years of pain. "How're the knees holding up?"

"Focus on the mission." Ice creeps into his tone. "There's more about that night they attacked me." My fingers tighten on the phone. "Get her under your spell, stick to the plan, and I'll tell you why they let me live."

Rage bubbles up, hot and familiar. "You're in that chair because of them, and you're playing games with information? I deserve to know everything."

"Not over the phone."

"Fuck that." The control I usually maintain cracks. "I'm not your puppet, Jackson. You want this plan to work? Get your ass here next week and tell me what you're hiding."

I end the call before he can argue. Even broken, he's still trying to control everything. But he forgets—I'm the one who's going to make the Kempers bleed.

Caleb watches me grind my teeth, knowing better than to comment. The rage needs somewhere to go. Somewhere like the ice.

"Noah around?" I check the time.

Jack pauses mid-bite. "Probably in his room. Wouldn't check if I were you."

Smart advice. Noah's got this thing about privacy—and by "thing," I mean the kind of enforcement methods they probably teach in the Bratva. Being a senior and legacy means he does whatever the fuck he wants. I've seen him on the ice, thecalculated way he breaks people. Never enough to get benched, just enough to send a message.

The rumors about what he does off the ice... well, I earned my spot with the Reapers, but Noah? He's something else entirely. The kind of monster other monsters fear.

I pull up Lola's footage one last time. She moves through the frame like a ghost, all careful control and hidden darkness. My imagination flickers with ways to make her break that control, to expose whatever she's hiding behind those walls.

"That her?" Jack appears with that predator's silence he's perfected.

I lock the screen, but not before he catches a glimpse. His slow smile promises trouble. I don’t like this motherfucker, so I ignore him.

I happened to drop something else into her bag, and I pray she doesn’t find it. An air tag, so I keep an eye on her whereabouts.

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