Page 128 of Undisputed Player
For their sake, for ours, we would always come back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jax
The party-bus, as Adrian called it, rolled through the city’s night-lit streets like a moving coffin, headlights slicing through the fog. Adrian’s tattooed knuckles drummed a restless rhythm on the steering wheel, humming something to the tension thickening the air.
Connor sat shotgun, a coiled predator, black eyes fixed on the road ahead. His silence wasn’t calm. It was violence waiting for the right time to release itself.
We wore our black gear and leather gloves, but Adrian had once again added spy goggles to his look, sporting the awful things like some apocalyptic raccoon.
I leaned against the cold metal wall of the van’s interior, the familiar weight of the gun at my side a small comfort in the storm of rage and fear that churned inside me.
Above the workbench, the monitor glowed with the live feed from Connor’s penthouse. Estelle and Sierra were tangled in the sheets, their bodies curled next to each other under silk bedding.
Toffee was sprawled across their legs like a silent protector, his tailflicking in some feline dream. The sight of the girls together would have soothed me if not for the cold fury raging in my chest.
“Two minutes,” Adrian announced, his energy focused to a laser point. His drumming was in perfect rhythm with my heartbeat, or maybe our hearts had synced to this moment of perfect, terrible purpose.
We watched the building’s security feed on a tablet as Damon stepped into the garage. He was tall, built like a fighter who stopped training, with dark hair slicked back and sharp, cutthroat features. Cheekbones like blades, a mouth made for sneering.
He wore a black suit, open at the throat, a gold chain glinting against his skin. He looked angry, unafraid, striding toward the ‘meeting point’ like he owned the night.
Connor and I slid on matching sunglasses and slipped out the van’s side door, moving like shadows. No words, just action.
Connor broke right, silent on concrete like he was made of smoke. In less than two strides, he was behind Damon and locking a thick forearm around his throat.
Damon’s gasp was short-lived—no sound made it out. Just the thump of his back hitting Connor's chest and the rapid scramble of his shoes on concrete as his airway closed.
“What the—” Damon choked, thrashing, but Connor’s grip was iron. Adrian appeared at his other side, pressing the cold snick of a blade against his ribs.
“Field trip time, sunshine.”
Damon’s eyes darted between us, trying to get a good look at our faces, but the sunglasses and shadows kept us anonymous. He snarled, but he wasn't stupid. Not enough to fight three apex predators. We shoved him into the van, Connor's iron grip never leaving his throat.
Inside, the lights were dim, the air cold as a morgue. Adrian zip-tied Damon’s wrists and ankles, then duct-taped his mouth for good measure.
I sat across from him in the dark, sunglasses on, knees spread, forearms on my thighs, just watching him breathe.
I wanted him to feel it. The pressure, the unraveling. I wanted his body to know before his brain did.
He sat there, glaring at us, his posture furious and defiant. His breaths were shallow, and his expensive suit rumpled.
This was the man responsible for putting the weight of the world on my princess’ shoulders. For taking Leo’s mother and threatening his remaining family for years. Estelle bore the burden of all these hardships, and had almost paid for it with her life.
The warehouse was our cathedral of steel and shadows, dedicated to a very particular kind of justice. The air was sharp with the scent of bleach and Adrian’s fucking essential oils.
Concrete echoed under our boots as the guys hauled Damon to the center, chaining him to the metal chair Adrian recently bolted to the floor. The metal bit into his wrists and ankles, the cold seeping into his skin.
Connor moved to the wall of monitors, navigating through a few screens. He was shit with tech, but the screens flickered to life after a minute, each one showing a different angle of his penthouse.
The main display showed the master bedroom, where Estelle and Sierra were still sound asleep, Toffee still sprawled across their legs. Estelle's hair was fanned across the pillow, her face peaceful. She was perfect, beautiful, and I almost lost her today.
Adrian laid out his tools with a manic smile: pliers, a blowtorch, a bucket of saltwater. Connor stood behind Damon, arms crossed, eyes hidden beneath lenses as he stared down at him.
I strolled in front of Damon, sunglasses still on, lazily rolling up my sleeves. "You know," I said, voice easy, "violence was always too messy for my taste. But for you? It’s the only language you’ll understand.”
I ripped the tape from Damon’s mouth in a single, vicious motion. He spat, a red line on the cement, and glared with animal anger. "Who the fuck are you? Do you have any idea who I am?"
