Page 93 of Her Remarkable Protector

I press my mind into action. What do I know about the Chapel?

Damon once bragged it was a place hidden in plain sight. A space beneath their noses where even the law wouldn’t bother looking. Underground. Isolated. But accessible to the Circle.

How does that help me? It doesn’t. Montana is littered with places just like it.

Think, Honor. Think.

Who else has mentioned the Chapel?

Patch.

Yes, he did. When he snatched one of the Circle’s biggest rivals.

He’d boasted about a place ‘with arches like a damn cathedral.’ That’s why they call it the Chapel. ‘No one hears you scream beneath the old Overland warehouse.’

Overland.I almost miss it—an abandoned logistics hub south of the state line. It’s the kind of place Damon would love—sprawling, easy to fortify, and forgotten by most.

I can’t afford to be wrong. But with nothing else to go on, I push forward.

The Overland warehouse looms ahead, its weathered walls and rusting signage exactly as I remember from the maps. A perfect facade for the Circle’s twisted games.

I pull up and barely step out of the car before two guards emerge from the shadows by the front door. I recognize both of them—Sal and Tommy, Damon’s lapdogs.

“Honor Deveraux,” Sal sneers as he steps forward, his grin smug. “Back where you belong.”

I maintain a defeated look, letting my shoulders slump as I hold up my hands. “I’m here for Damon.”

“You sure as hell are,” he says, motioning for Tommy to search me.

Tommy steps in, running his hands over me with deliberate slowness. He doesn’t even try to hide the smirk when he finds my Glock. “Look what we’ve got here,” he says, holding it up like a trophy.

But he doesn’t stop there. His hands drop to my boot, where he pulls out the knife I’d stashed. I grit my teeth, surprised and annoyed. He’s more thorough than Patch, I give him that.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Honor Deveraux,” he repeats, his tone dripping with condescension. “You could’ve been a true Stoneborn. But no, you had to go play house with your hero.”

Then he steps closer, pressing me against him. His hand brushes too high on my chest.

Big mistake.

I keep my expression neutral, my mind already working three steps ahead.

“Get moving,” Sal snaps, shoving me forward.

I let them push me through the door and into the warehouse. The ground floor is dark, the only light coming from bare bulbs strung up haphazardly. Rows of rusted shelving line the walls, some of them still holding forgotten crates. The air is heavy with the scent of dust and oil.

The guards stay close, guiding me past the rows of shelves toward the far corner of the warehouse. There, a metal staircase descends into the shadows.

I take the first step down. The deeper we go, the louder the sounds become—voices, the clink of metal, the buzz of fluorescent lights.

The stairs end at a narrow hallway, the walls lined with old brick. Arches loom ahead, their curved tops giving the place its namesake.The Chapel.

They lead me through the arches into a cavernous space, the high ceiling stretching above. And in the center of it all—Chase.

I stop breathing for a few seconds. He’s hung by the wrists, his body a map of pain—cuts, bruises, swelling that speaks of hours of torture. Every instinct in me screams to act. I swear I feel his pain in my own skin. But I force myself still. Not yet. Let them think I’m broken. Let them believe I’ve come crawling back.

Damon steps out of the shadows, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “Welcome back, Honor.”

“She’s clean!” Sal announces.

---