Page 96 of Burn With Me

Aurora’s tears make me feel like the worst kind of shit in the world. Like scum that isn’t even fit to touch the bottom of her shoes. I anchor my hands on my hips as I rock back and stare up at the ceiling, not really seeing it.

I hurt her. Let her believe that everything that happened here tonight was another manipulation. I could have told her the truth, a part of me wants to. It would be easier, but then she’d be in far more danger. If she knows what Damien is planning, then she’s as good as dead and I’ll be the one who signed her death warrant.

My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I can’t say how many times I felt the damn thing move in my pants as I’d fucked her with my fingers against the bookcase, but I’d ignored it all in favor of watching her body come apart under me. This time there’s nothing to distract me. I yank it out, swipe the green button and put it to my ear.

“Isaac.”

“We have a problem.” Shep’s hard tone is enough to get my ass moving.

“Where are you?” I leave the study and step out into the hall.

“Left wing,” he states. “Third floor. You were right.” I turn at the end of the hall, towards the emergency staircase I know is beyond the door at the end.

“He held a meeting?”

“Not exactly,” Shep hedges. “Paris went back to the party to make sure he was staying put—you weren’t answering your phone.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, picking up the pace. “Something came up with Aurora.”

“Yeah, well, I figured that to be the case.”

“What did you find?”

Shep blows out a breath. “I can’t explain over the phone. You’ll have to see when you get here.”

“Alright, I’ll be there soon.”

“I’ll be out in the hall waiting,” he says. “Unless someone comes. Keep a low profile, but make it quick.”

“On my way.” I hang up the call and slam into the emergency staircase exit. My feet pound stairs as I take them two at a time. I reach the third floor in no time, but I’m all the way on the opposite side of the house. Once I’m in the hallway, I slow my pace, scanning and pausing at each intersection.

No one appears to be up here and even the sound from the party doesn’t reach these quarters. Still, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Once I finally reach the third floor, left wing, I spot a figure hovering outside of a door towards the opposite end.

Shepherd.

His face is etched into a dark mask. “I’m here,” I say as I approach.

He nods and turns towards the door he’s standing in front of. He pauses for a moment, drawing in a breath before turning the handle and leading me inside. I stop in the doorway as he takes a step to the side to reveal the contents.

“Fucking … Christ.”

“Yeah,” Shep says. “My exact sentiments.”

“Did you open them?” I take a step closer to the containers. There are at least a dozen of them. Large holes drilled into the tops of wooden crates lined up on the other side of the room.

When Shep doesn’t answer, I look back at him. His gaze trails across the room to the furthest container. The answer is sitting right there—the top pried off and set to the side, on top of the box next to it. He grits his teeth.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do with this, man.”

As I move towards it, I curse internally. I have a distinctly awful gut feeling as I approach, as if I know exactly what I’m going to find. The revelation inside turns my stomach. My fingers curl over the opening, tightening as the wood digs into my palms.

A small girl—a fucking child—lays in the crate, curled into a ball, her lashes fluttering as her eyes move back and forth behind closed lids. I look from the girl to the wires attached to her arm, a large bag dripping clear liquid into the tube attached to her hangs from the side of the crate. Drugs. No doubt to keep her asleep until she can make it to her owners. In her other arm, a similar tube is attached and a second bag hangs next to the first. Water? Nutrients? How fucking long can a human survive in a crate like this?

A thousand thoughts race through my mind. No doubt the rest of these crates are filled with others. We can’t leave them … but we can’t extract them. To do so would put all of us at risk. There are likely others.

“That arrogant ass…” I grit out. How fucking cocky is he to think he can bring this into his own estate? The answer: extremely.

“I’ve already taken pictures,” Shep says. “You can send them to your Fed friend.”

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