Page 87 of Dublin Beast

I climb out of the pool and pace the perimeter, boots crunching broken tile beneath my soles. Cracks run like veins across the mosaic floors, the blue-and-gold pattern long since faded into a muddy, fractured memory of what this place used to be.

The arched windows are high, fogged over with decades of grime, iron bars bolted into the stone. I reach up and give one a solid yank. The metal groans but doesn’t budge.

I try another. Same result.

Even if I got one open, what would be the point?

Each breath I take makes me angrier. This is not the kind of cage I enjoy—not by a long shot.

I cross to the steel door. It’s warped and ancient, its paint peeling off like curls of tree bark. Bolted shut from the outside.

I give it a couple good pounds with the meat of my fist. The hammering knocks echo back at us in the room.

Solid. No flex.

My nostrils flare.

Pressing my ear to the door, I listen but get nothing back. Either there’s no one out there or they’re playing it very cool and quiet.

I take a step back and stare at the door like I could will it open with the heat of my rage. I’ve been locked up before. By cops. By rival gangs. By Da—once, when I was fifteen and thought I was too grown to listen.

But never like this.

Never with an innocent woman in the room.

“Door’s sealed from the outside,” I say over my shoulder, not looking at her. “Windows are a joke. We’re locked in tight.”

Harper doesn’t respond. I don’t expect her to. At least she’s out of her chair and searching the space. She may be frosty, distant, and untouchable but she has a keen mind and is definitely an innovative thinker.

And her being detached is good.

It’s easier to pretend that none of it meant anything.

I rub a hand over my mouth, every muscle in my body itching for a fight I can’t have. A fight Ineed.

I want to punch a wall. Rip the pipes out of the ceiling. Tear down every inch of this decaying mausoleum until I find a fucking exit or die trying. But I can’t waste my energy. I’ll need it when Mason comes through that door, all smug and stupid and thinking he has the upper hand.

I glance back at Harper.

She’s not looking at me.

She hasn’t truly looked at me since our fight in the parking lot of the inn. And why would she? I’m the man who killed a woman and made her an accomplice.

“Go ahead and say it,” I mutter, turning to face her fully. “Whatever’s rattling around in that sharp little mind. Just spit it out already.”

Her gaze flicks to mine. “What’s the point?”

I bark out a humorless laugh. “All right then. That’s how we’ll play it.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

Harper

The cracked tile walls and floor radiate cold through me, dampness seeping deep into my bones. The musty air scratches at the back of my throat and my skin itches like the mildew in the air is trying to crawl under it.

I need to get out of here.

Pushing out of my chair, I take another lap of the space. I focus on thinking outside the box. If the door won’t open, what are our options?

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