Page 12 of Sinful Submission

Hours passed.The sun sank completely, leaving us in shadow, broken only by harsh fluorescent lights. My captors took shifts watching me, but their attention wavered. They were getting tired and sloppy.

I kept testing the restraints, working the plastic against my raw skin. Kept logging details – the limp of the injured one was growing worse. The broken-nose guy’s breathing whistled. The third one’s moans were now whimpers as he sat balled up against the wall.

I could almost feel them, my men out there, that primal energy that made them such perfect predators, layering me like a blanket. Titan would come with Cruz and Storm, three horsemen bringing apocalypse to anyone who got in their way when getting to me.

But I wouldn’t wait helplessly. I’d show them I belonged in their world of shadow and blood.

My thoughts drifted to Storm. He liked to call me princess, which I adored. But when I’d asked why not call me a queen, he’d said:

“Queens have power, but they also have responsibilities. Princesses get to do whatever the fuck they want.”

I loved his explanation, but at this moment, I recognized that I wanted the responsibility of a queen and the privilege of a princess congruently.

I’d show him I deserved it – I’d show them that their queen had claws of her own.

The Mercedes AMGroared down dock row as I scanned every warehouse, every corner, and every shadow. Three hours of searching and nothing. No sign of the black SUV. No whispers from street contacts. Nothing but the growing rage building inside me.

“Warehouse thirty-nine clear.” Cruz’s voice crackled through my earpiece. “Moving to forty.”

“Copy.” I cut the bike’s engine outside warehouse thirty-seven, killing the lights. “Storm, what do you have?”

“Traffic cams lost them after Collins,” Storm replied. “But I’m running background on every dock worker with access to these buildings. Cross-referencing with Jeremy McAllister’s known associates.”

I slipped off the bike, checking my weapon. The familiar weight of the Glock against my palm did nothing to calm the storm in my gut. Every minute that passed was another minute they had her.

The memory of her on the security footage hit me again – how she’d fought back and landed that punch. Pride and ragewarred in my chest. Santari was no victim, but that wouldn’t stop me from killing every motherfucker who was responsible for her distress.

Movement caught my eye. A dock worker stumbled drunk between containers. His security badge marked him as senior staff, which meant he had access to all areas.

I blended into the shadows, letting him pass before stepping out behind him. One hand over his mouth, the other around his throat, and I dragged him into the dark.

“Listen carefully.” I kept my voice low, deadly. “Nod, if you understand.”

He nodded frantically.

“Black SUV. Dealer plates. Three men in suits. Came through here a few hours ago. Where?”

I loosened my grip enough for him to speak. “I-I don’t?—”

My hand tightened. “Wrong answer.”

“Wait! Wait!” He clawed at my arm. “There was something about warehouse forty-nine. It wasn’t supposed to be occupied, but lights were on earlier.”

“Who has access?”

“A new company. It was leased last week. I just process paperwork.”

“Give me a name.”

“Phoenix Holdings or... something. Please...”

I released him, letting him drop to his knees. “If you’re lying, the next time you see me, will be the last time you see anything.”

“I’m not! I swear!” He scrambled back. “Just don’t kill me, man.”

“Cruz.” I tapped my earpiece, watching the dock worker run off. “Warehouse forty-nine. Phoenix Holdings.”

“I’m on it.” Keys clicked in the background as Storm worked. “It’s a shell company that was registered last week. But the payment was traced to an account I recognize. It’s?—”

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