Page 74 of Monsters Carve Thrones
His face twisted, horrified. “Rafe. Don’t–”
“I mean it.” I looked at him, dead in the eyes. “Would you? Would you put a bullet in my head? Because I don’t want this life without her.”
“Don’t ask me that,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll do it myself.”
Laura inhaled sharply. Nico reached out and held her hand. And Kieran just looked at me like I’d ripped his heart out with my bare hands. But none of them stopped me from saying it.
Because they all knew I meant it.
I had to get my shit together to head out, but it was so goddamn hard.
***
The snow fell thicker by the time we made it to the Vasileostrovsky District. It clung to the windshield in fat, wet flakes, and I watched it slide down like ash from the sky. My soul had bled out after crying so much the past few days.
The car was silent.
Laura drove. Kieran sat beside her, flipping through the fake IDs we’d prepared for this leg of the hunt. Nico and I sat in the back, weapons pressed to our thighs beneath long coats. The hotel we were heading to was upscale–opulent enough to attract international traffickers, but discreet enough not to ask questions.
I hadn’t slept in over thirty-six hours. The burn behind my eyes was brutal, and my body ached like I’d been in a brawl. The drugs helped... until they didn’t. Until the high wore off and I was just a husk of rage and desperation, barely held together by the promise of Adela.
She was theonlyfucking reason I was breathing.
We pulled up to the front of a fancier hotel in the city. A place that looked like a palace, dressed in velvet and steel. Gilded windows. Marble steps. A doorman who didn’t flinch when I stepped out with dead eyes and a black coat heavy with violence.
“Act like we belong here,” Laura said under her breath as she handed our IDs over to the concierge. “Corporate security team. We’re scouting the venue for an upcoming gala. Keep it clean unless you get a name.”
“Fuck clean,” I muttered, scanning the gold-lit lobby. “She’s either here or she’s not. I’m not wasting another night waiting.”
“Rafe–”
“I said what I said.”
The concierge bought the lie easily. We were escorted up to the sixth floor under the guise of a guided tour. Nico kept his mouth shut. Kieran did the talking. Laura smiled politely, and I trailed behind them all, itching for an excuse to put a bullet in someone’s head.
Sixth floor. East wing. The doors were glossy walnut, numbers engraved in gold.
“Rooms 614 and 616 were recently extended stays,” the concierge noted. “One of them was paid in full with crypto. No ID listed.”
My pulse quickened. I looked at Laura. She gave the slightest nod.
“We’ll take a peek for security risk assessments,” she said sweetly, pulling the keycard from the man’s gloved hand. “You can wait in the elevator.”
Smart.
When the door clicked shut behind us, Kieran pulled a silencer from his coat and checked the corners. Nico slipped on gloves.
I moved straight for Room 616. I didn’t even need to knock, because the door opened with a mechanical click.
Empty, but not untouched.
Perfume lingered in the air. It was sharp and floral, definitely a scent I didn’t recognize. There was a half-drunk glass of red wine on the desk. Cigarette butts crushed into a crystal tray.
More importantly: documents.
Laura was already rifling through the desk drawer. “Russian bank receipts. Offshore transfers. Routes. This looks like a transport manifest–shit. Rafe, this is Waylon’s pipeline. They’ve been moving shipments through Finland. Their partnership is still very active.”
