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“Who brought him in, Penelope?” I urge, twisting my head towards her. She’s fixed on Max, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip.

“No one, Mr Warren. He was just laid out on the top of the stairs of the front door,” she explains, but she won’t meet anyone’s eyes.

“He’s struggling to talk. There’s no way we’re getting information out of him today,” Jac says, standing up and grabbing a bottle of disinfectant from his desk drawer.

He pours it over Max’s bloodied knee, making him scrunch his face and moan out in pain.

“I’m sorry,” Jac grimaces.

Ezra hisses from the other side of the room, squinting away from the sight as Daniel comes back with a small glass of water. I gently thread my arms under Max’s shoulders and slowly pull him up to a sitting position, grabbing the glass from Dan and gently pressing it to the bottom of Max’s cut lip. He slowly tilts his head, and I move the glass with him as he swallows the contents.

“Fucking shit,” I murmur. “Ezra, get a team on tracking down Aiden.”

Ezra nods and rushes out of the room. An older, male doctor rushes in after he leaves. The doctor’s face morphs into shock as he takes in the sight of Max.

“Do you think the fire was him?” Jac asks.

“Get him into the first aid room. Now,” I say in the doctor's direction. He nods his head, and Daniel helps him pull out a stretcher, rolling Max onto it.

I turn to Jac. “It had to be. This is a warning”—I point to Max—“but it doesn’t look like he was in any sort of fire. We need to track down that bastard. I fucking warned him.”

Though, as I say that, the only thing I can think about is Camila.

Chapter 13

Camila

Iopt for a glittery, green bodysuit. All the girls have a signature colour. I was forced to pick one on the spot when I first joined. It’s like a little dancer family initiation ceremony. And, because I’ve always looked good in green, that’s what I picked. It’s the only colour that complements my eyes well—they really stand out—and it’s the one feature on me that I don’t hate. At least until the bags showed up.

I do my usual ritual of glueing the see-through green stockings to the scar on my thigh.

As I approach the stage screen, faintly aware of our tech guy counting me in on stage, I blow out a breath. My knees tremble slightly as his counting fades out.

When Xander left, I sat inside the car, which smelt faintly like him. The cream interior, chrome accents, fancy touch screen on the dashboard—none of it suited me. It’s luxury that I could never afford or even want. But I basked in it. The first thing that made me feel a little like I was worth something. Like maybe I’m heading in the right direction. That all quickly faded out when I received another text.

I used a distraction. I picked out this outfit, and I planned my routine.

All in the hopes that Xander would be here.

I can have a bit of fun, right? It’s innocent fun.

The screen begins to come up, and my heart rate slows as I pull in long breaths.

There he is.

Sitting right in front of the pole at the end of the stage. The top of his shirt is completely undone, revealing more tattoos than before. His legs are spread wide. He pulls himself up in the rounded, leather seat when he sees me. Placing his drink down on the small table next to him, he leans his cheek on his fisted hand, and the other arm drops in between his legs.

The vision of a well-dressed criminal.

There was a hush of rumours around the club tonight. That the warehouse that burnt down was the Warrens’.

For the first time, I don’t even hear the roar of the crowd.

All I can see—all I can focus on—is him. The dark energy that exudes from him. The way my body pulls towards him on its own accord.

Something that I can’t place keeps drawing me to him. Despite the dangerous murmurs about him. Despite his rather persistent approach.

It’s like ice and flames. Two elements that know they won’t work together—they shouldn’t—but still, they try.