I arch a brow as I sip my coffee. “I assume this must be the hard way you’re referring to? Talking me out of it? Isaiah’s still alive, Nick. I’m not stopping now.”
“You’ve done plenty of damage on your own in the last two weeks,” he agrees. “But some of the families are asking questions, and while we’ve gotten to most of the bodies in time, there were a couple discovered before we could take care of them.”
“And the police can’t bury the cases?” Clean up isn’t in my wheelhouse, and while I did my best to take out my targets in concealed spaces, it wasn’t always possible. Leaving Nick to deal with my fallout is a selfish move on my part.
It’s eating at me from the inside out.
“Our pull with LAPD only goes so far. You go after Tris, and we’ll have none.”
“Actually, I think I have a way around that.” Worried by the sudden weakness in my legs, I make my way to the opposite end of the couch. Guess I didn’t sleep as well as I thought I did. I gulp more coffee. “Whenever Tris has to report for work, he leaves another guy with Isaiah, but I get the feeling Isaiah doesn’t trust him. He won’t leave his safe house until Tris returns.” I lean forward and set my mug on the table. My hands are starting to shake, and I’d rather not burn myself. “If I can get inside the safe house, or get Isaiah out without Tris dogging him, I can end this.” I dig my nails into the side of my thigh. The pain is a weak, brief flash that does nothing to overtake the encroaching fatigue.
“It doesn’t matter, Cass. You’ve lost the family’s backing. Any more bodies turn up, they won’t help you hide them.” He sighs and places his mug on the table.
I scrub my hands over my face. “So I refocus on Isaiah. That’s fine. Another week, it’ll all be over.” My head is heavy. I turn sideways and rest it on the back of the couch.
He shifts around to face me, the weariness in his gaze absolute. “That’s just it. I can’t run damage control for you any longer. You don’t get another week. My father, Con’s father, they’re not disagreeing something needs to be done, or even the way it’s being done. You changed the plan, and no one knows where you’re going to hit next. That’s what they object to.”
Goddamn patriarchy. “I’d rather hit first, apologize later.” I’ll come up with a different plan. Tris doesn’t strike me as a leader. It’ll take the remaining five men some time to figure out how—or if—they’re going to continue with this little revolution.
Why am I so fucking tired?
He shakes his head. “You don’t have a choice in this matter anymore.” My eyelids droop as he stands, jostling the cushions. I can’t even lift my head as he bends over me, lips brushing a kiss across my temple. “I’m sorry, Cass,” he whispers.
Sorry? What’s he sorry for? I try to ask him, but all I manage is an unintelligible mumble. Every part of me feels like it’s encased in cement, the battle to stay awake a losing one.
Sorry.
The coffee.
He slides one arm under my knees, the other behind my back, and I want to hit him.
The bastard drugged my coffee.
* * * *
This bed is not mine. It’s not one of Nick’s, and it’s not the bed in Constantine’s guest room. I push my nose into the pillow.
It’s too clean.
I slit open an eye. There’s a table beside the bed with a small lamp and a bottle of water. I reach out to grab the water and stop.
Coffee.
Drugs.
My boyfriend drugged me.
I shoot up in bed fast enough to trigger a dull, aching throb behind my eyes, and I squeeze them shut. Whatever Nick doped me with has given me a headache and a mouth desperately in need of water. After several deep breaths, the throbbing fades to a manageable level, and I open my eyes again.
The room is dim. Light’s coming in from somewhere, and I twist around to find the source. High windows line the wall behind the bed. The room itself is long and kind of narrow, the walls white. Other than the bed and the table, the only other furniture is a tall cabinet in the corner.
I push aside the blankets—how considerate of Nick to make sure I was comfortable while I was unconscious—and plant my feet on the floor. At some point, he took off my pants, and the air in the room is cool enough to make me shiver. My legs hold me up, so I walk to the cabinet and pull open the doors.
Why are my clothes hanging in here? I tug on a sleeve and frown. I left most of my clothing at Constantine’s. Flipping through the hangers, it looks like all my clothes have been moved here. What’s not hanging up is in the shallow drawers below. I snag a pair of fleece pants I haven’t seen before and pull them on, then head for the door.
Nick earns back a point when the knob turns easily in my hand. I half expected him to have me locked in the room. I step onto what appears to be a catwalk and peer over the railing to the floor below.
It’s a warehouse.
Nick’s got me in a warehouse.
Granted, it’s a small-ish warehouse. The floor below is mostly covered in mats, though one quarter of the space holds free weights, a couple of cardio machines, and other random exercise equipment.
I study the length of the catwalk. The room I’m in is on one end. I open the door next to my room, a groan of relief escaping when I see it’s a bathroom. Even if the bottle on the nightstand is sealed, I don’t trust it. I wash my hands, turn the hot water to cold, and cup them under the stream.
I drink.
And drink.
And drink.
Water dribbles down my chin, trailing along my neck, but I don’t care. Whatever the hell Nick put in my coffee dried my mouth out worse than the Mojave.
When I’ve finally drunk my fill, I fumble a towel free of the rack and wipe the water from my face. Then I go back to the room, find a pair of shoes, and head for the stairs at the other end of the catwalk.
If he’s around, he must be in one of the other two rooms because the main level is empty. There’s a wide set of double sliding doors on the far side of the warehouse and a sturdy-looking metal bar secured with a heavy lock across them.
Beside me is a single door with a bright green sign overhead that reads EXIT. I glance up at the catwalk and step toward the door.
This one is locked. I study the deadbolt for a moment. It must lock from the outside. Which means either anyone outside can unlock it or Nick had a double-sided deadbolt put in. Dangerous in the event of an emergency. Perfect if you want to keep someone prisoner.
“You can have your own key when I’m confident you won’t try to escape.”
“Your trust in me is overwhelming,” I say flatly, glaring at the door. I turn around and scan the lower level. I missed the kitchen area spread out under the catwalk. He’s lounging against a counter, bottle of water next to his elbow.
“Preemptive strike.” His voice is just as flat. “You and I both know you wouldn’t have come willingly. It was either drug you or wrestle you to the ground and handcuff you, and there was still a risk you’d get away.” He flashes a sharp smile. “You’re wily like that.”
I give the door a hard thump with the side of my fist and stalk to the middle of the mats. I kick off my shoes and drop to the floor. “Your diplomatic skills need work. You have no way of knowing I wouldn’t have agreed with you.”
He pushes off the counter and strides across the room. My breath hitches as he drops to his knees in front of me. “If you expect me to apologize for what I’ve done,