Page 97 of Double Down
I stand there a few seconds, pulse pounding.
I hate this—being outside the walls of whatever bullshit is coming. Tears burn behind my eyes. I don’t let them fall. I can’t.
I pace. Options. I could slip in with coffee. I could listen from the hall. He’ll head to the suite, probably text Mav to meet him there after he showers.
Storm pulls my shirt over my head.
“This changes things, Angel. I know it pisses you off when Con shuts you out, but it’s for your own good. These are dangerous people. Let’s get you upstairs. I’ll run a bath and we’ll do more aftercare when I get back.”
“Go,” I tell him, choking back the fear rising in my throat. “We can cuddle later. They need you more than I do right now.”
“Phoenix—” he starts, but I set my palm on his chest, stopping him.
“I’m good.” I rise on my toes and kiss his cheek. He nods and goes. I pull on my jeans and begin to move.
Every step reminds me of what we just did. I ignore the ache between my thighs as I head for the suite, already mapping the best place to overhear.
I’m close to the elevator when a text notification buzzes through.
Unknown number
Maybe it’s time to up the stakes.
There’s a link. Knowing I shouldn’t, knowing it’s a bad idea, I tap it. The video opens dark and grainy, but shapes sharpen fast: a knot of men, blows landing. Then Storm’s white-blond hair, Maverick’s shoulders.
I should be in this recording but I’m not. The camera is zoomed in too far, or they’ve adjusted the framing before sending the recording.
The morning they saved me—when the Titans killed for me. Because of me.
The camera catches Storm and Maverick’s faces, clear enough to recognize. Both of them beating the same man. I flinch with every hit, the wet thud loud in my ears.
I remember being there, hearing the way his body absorbed his rage. When Storm’s chaos unraveled and there wasn’t anything I could do. Even if I wanted to.
The yelling stops. Only the sick, wet sounds remain as the man stops moving.
The camera records everything—their fists, the way the body jerks. The sound of breathless gasps turning into nothing.
Then the stillness.
It takes a long time to beat someone to death. In the moment it felt like it was over in a flash. But here on the camera, the seconds drag on. The panic builds until it’s threatening to spill out all over the floor.
On the recording, Storm steps back, breathing hard. Maverick doesn’t.
My stomach turns. I grip the phone until my knuckles go white, dashing a tear from the corner of my eye.
I’m not upset at their actions—I’m upset at what this means. I’m reminded of what they’ll do to keep what’s theirs.
They were willing to destroy their lives for me. And here I am putting them in more danger by not being strong enough to tell them what’s happening.
Another message.
Unknown number
make them return what is ours, kitten, or this video will be the least of their problems.
The mob isn’t just watching me. They’re watchingeverything. They now have video of at least two of my Titans committing murder.
Another buzz.
