Page 75 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

I don’t think. I move.

I grab my jacket from the chair, my gun from the desk, and storm down the hall without another word. My pulse is a steady, pounding rhythm against my skull.

If they got to Jayden, what else are they capable of?

The thought makes my blood run cold.

I push through the front doors of the estate, the night air slapping against my skin, sharp and crisp. The sky is a murky shade of gray, the promise of rain hanging thick in the air. My boots hit the pavement hard as I stalk toward the waiting black SUV.

Derik, my driver, straightens at the sight of me, already reaching to open the back door.

"Derik," I bark as I climb in, barely waiting for him to shut the door before I continue, "Did she get home safely?"

He nods, shifting into gear as the car pulls away from the estate. "Yes, sir. I dropped her off myself. She went inside without any trouble."

I exhale, some of the strain in my chest easing. Good.

Derik glances at me through the rearview mirror, his expression hesitant. "You sure that was the right call, boss? Sending her away like that?"

I don’t answer immediately.

Because I don’t fucking know.

"She’s not part of this," I say finally, my voice low.

Derik doesn’t push, but I see the doubt in his eyes.

Neither of us speak for the rest of the drive.

I stare out the window as the city blurs past, my mind running through every possibility, every threat, every fucking scenario that could have led to Jayden being found in a warehouse.

Someone set him up. Someone on the inside. And whoever it is, I’m going to find them. And when I do? I’m going to make them bleed.

The warehouse looms in the distance, a skeletal structure against the darkened skyline. Its rusted metal walls are streaked with grime, the broken windows like hollow eyes staring into nothing. The air is thick with the stench of rot and salt, the docks only a few blocks away, carrying the heavy scent of damp wood and dead fish. But there’s something worse beneath it all.

The unmistakable copper tang of blood.

I don’t wait for the car to fully stop before I shove the door open, my boots hitting the cracked concrete with force. The ground is uneven, patches of oil-stained gravel crunching beneath my steps as I storm toward the warehouse entrance.

Two of my men stand guard at the door, their faces grim, shoulders stiff. One of them—Miguel—nods in greeting, but his eyes won’t meet mine.

That’s how I know this is bad.

Really fucking bad.

I push through the entrance, and the second I step inside, the air shifts. It’s colder here, thick with dust and death. The metallic scent of dried blood clings to the air, mixing with the dampness of the abandoned space. Dim overhead bulbs glimmer, casting long, eerie shadows along the walls.

And then I see him.

Jayden.

My stomach drops.

He’s slumped against a rusted metal chair, his arms hanging limply at his sides, head bowed forward like a broken marionette. Blood stains his shirt, deep crimson soaking through the fabric, pooling on the floor beneath him in thick, dried streaks. His face is almost unrecognizable—swollen, bruised, a jagged cut along his cheekbone still oozing.

But his chest is moving. Barely.

A strangled breath. A weak, gasping wheeze.

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