Page 54 of Dead Devil's Playground
I don't have an answer, but I know with bone-deep certainty that I can't lose him. Not now. Not when I've just realized how much he matters.
By the time I reach the Lair, rage has crystallized into something cold and deadly inside me.
And I will burn the world to ash before I let anyone take them from me.
I pull into the underground parking garage beneath the Lair, the security gate recognizing the car's transponder and lifting automatically. The garage is eerily quiet as I park close to the private elevator that will take me directly to the apartment.
As I step out of the car, a wave of exhaustion hits me so hard I have to lean against the hood for support. The adrenaline that's been keeping me going is finally wearing off, leaving me shaky and light-headed.
I force myself to stand upright, to walk to the elevator with my head high even though there's no one to see my moment of weakness. The twins would be here soon with Hudson. Ourmedical team is the best money can buy—they've patched us up from worse. He'll be fine. They'll all be fine.
The elevator ascends silently as I lean against the mirrored wall, avoiding my reflection. I don't need to see the blood, the exhaustion, the fear I know is written across my face.
The doors slide open with a soft ping, revealing the familiar darkness of our home. I step into the apartment, not bothering with the lights. I know this space like I know my own body—could navigate it blindfolded if necessary.
My mind churns with plans and contingencies as I move through the darkened living area. We need to secure all properties, verify the loyalty of every member of our organization. If Camden betrayed us, others might have too. We need to find out how deep the corruption goes, who else might be working against us.
I'm halfway across the living room when a voice speaks from the darkness.
"Rough night?"
Every muscle in my body locks into place. The air vanishes from my lungs as though someone has punched me in the chest. That voice—impossible, familiar—reaches into my core and twists.
Time stops. The ground seems to vanish beneath my feet, leaving me floating in a void where nothing makes sense. I must be hallucinating from stress and exhaustion. He can't be here. He can't be alive.
My eyes strain against the darkness, finally making out a silhouette standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city. A tall, solid frame backlit by the ambient glow of the city lights.
"What's the matter?" the voice continues, a smile evident in its tone. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't think past the roaring in my ears and the single, impossible thought circling my brain: He's here. He's alive.
My body feels disconnected, moving through molasses as the figure takes another step forward, still mostly shrouded in shadow.
"Did you miss me?"
The figure steps fully into the glow of the city lights streaming through the windows, and my breath catches in my throat. Oliver—alive, unharmed, pristine in a perfectly tailored suit—stands before me. Not floating face-down in the harbor, not riddled with bullets, but here in my apartment, looking at me with those familiar eyes that now hold something I never noticed before: cold calculation.
"Oliver?" I whisper, my voice betraying me with its tremor.
He smiles, that same boyish, eager smile that had made me trust him, and lifts a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid to his lips. I recognize the glass—part of a set we keep for our most expensive bourbon. He takes a long, appreciative sip, savoring it as though we're at a casual social gathering rather than standing in the aftermath of betrayal and bloodshed.
"This is excellent," he comments, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "Your taste is impeccable, as always."
"You're dead," I manage. "I saw you get shot. You fell into the water."
He laughs, the sound nothing like the nervous chuckle I'd grown accustomed to. This laugh is confident, controlled—the laugh of someone who's exactly where they planned to be.
"A necessary performance," he says with a dismissive wave. "And quite convincing, apparently. The look on your face when I went into the water..." He makes a chef's kiss gesture with his free hand. "Perfection."
My mind races, trying to process this new reality. If Oliver is alive, if he staged his own death, then everything—absolutely everything—comes into question.
"Why?" I ask, buying time as I assess my options. I'm exhausted, covered in blood, emotionally drained. Not ideal conditions for a fight.
"Why?" he repeats, taking another leisurely sip of bourbon. "Because this is what I've been waiting for, Rylan. This night. This moment. Taking my rightful place."
"Your rightful place?" I echo, edging slightly to my left, positioning myself for a better angle.
"At the top," he says simply, gesturing to the apartment around us. "Where I belong."
