Page 73 of Puck'N Enemy
The penthouse living room is pristine and untouched by the violence below. A plush white sofa takes up center stage. There’s expensive art on the walls and a massive floor-to-ceiling window displays the city skyline. The smell of men’s cologne hangs heavy in the air.
I step out of the elevator first but Mitchikov shoves past me, his gun raised, scanning every corner. For a moment, I wonder exactly how many raids my teammate has been on to move with such precision.
“Stay behind me,” he orders, covering me with his body.
My eyes dart frantically around the room. There’s no sign of Dylan or Pete.
The emptiness makes my skin crawl.
Mitchikov moves like a predator. He’s silent, methodical, and clearing the space with each step. His gun never wavers.
My grip on my bat tightens as I hear the echo of my own breathing in the silence.
Somewhere deeper in the penthouse, a door creaks.
He gestures toward a hallway. “He’s here,” he says softly. “Stay sharp.”
I nod.
Soon, we reach a set of double doors.
Without any hesitation, Mitchikov kicks them open to reveal a bedroom.
The space is dimly lit with the curtains fully drawn. Only a small bedside lamp illuminates the room before us.
My heart nearly stops as my gaze falls on the figure lying on top of the bed.
Dylan is spread out on the massive bed, naked. His arms are stretched above his head, wrists handcuffed tightly to the ornate headboard. His bare chest is pale, almost translucent in the soft light, but streaked with angry red slashes and scattered bite marks. Bruises ring his neck like a cruel necklace, raw and fresh.
His eyes are closed and his chest barely moves. For one horrifying moment, I can’t tell if he’s breathing.
Why is he so damn still and quiet?
No… no, no, no.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, my voice cracking. Am I too late?
Suddenly, I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t even bring myself to touch him.
Did Pete…? Did that bastard kill him?
“Logan, what’s wrong with you?” Mitchikov’s sharp voice snaps me from the haze.
But I still can’t move as I stare at Dylan’s motionless body.
Mitchikov curses under his breath. Pushing past me, he strides to the bed and grabs Dylan’s shoulders, shaking him roughly. “Hey! Hey, kid! Wake the hell up!”
Dylan’s eyelids flutter.
A hoarse sound escapes his throat before he gasps sharply, his eyes flying open. “Let go of me, you bastard!” Dylan shouts, jerking against his bindings. “Don’t you fucking touch me or I will kill you myself.”
Next moment, he starts sobbing wildly. “Don’t hurt Logan and his family. I’m...I’m s-s-sorry. I will do as you say. Just don’t hurt them, please.”
Thick streams of tears pour down his pale cheeks, blinding him to reality.
Mitchikov glances at me, concern softening his hard features.
As for me, I’m jolted back to reality.
