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Her room is empty.

The guards assigned to her are on the floor, unconscious but alive. The window is broken, the curtain fluttering in the breeze from outside. And Davina—

Davina is gone.

I stand in the middle of her empty room, my chest heaving, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. The silence is deafening. The absence is unmistakable.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel something crack inside me. Not anger—anger I can use, anger I can channel. This is something else. Something colder. Something that feels like the ground giving way beneath my feet.

I failed. I promised myself I would protect her, and I failed.

Chapter Twenty-One - Davina

My head is throbbing, a dull persistent ache that radiates from the base of my skull to my temples. My wrists burn where something rough and tight is digging into the skin, and my shoulders ache from the angle my arms are forced behind my back.

I’m on a cold concrete floor. The air smells like rust and gasoline, and the light filtering through grimy windows is gray and weak, like it’s given up on trying to brighten this place.

The last thing I remember is a knock at the door. I was in the library, trying to lose myself in a book, trying not to think about Maxim or the files or the phone call to Ethan. There was a knock, and I went to answer it because the guards were dealing with something in the east wing, and I thought—

I thought it might be important.

The memory of what happened after is fragmented. Hands grabbing me. A cloth over my mouth. The sickly sweet smell of something that made my head spin. Being carried through the dark, thrown into a vehicle, the sound of engines and men’s voices speaking in languages I couldn’t identify.

Now I’m here. Wherever here is.

I try to sit up, but the ropes around my wrists are anchored to something behind me—a pipe, maybe, or a bolt in the wall—and I can’t move more than a few inches. My ankles are bound too, the rope so tight I can feel my feet starting to go numb.

“Look who’s awake.”

The voice comes from somewhere to my left. I turn my head, wincing at the pain the movement causes, and see a man sitting in a folding chair a few feet away. He’s lean and sharp-featured, with a scar across his jaw that pulls his mouth into a permanent half smile. His eyes are flat and empty in a way that makes my stomach clench.

Callum Rourke. The man from the road. The man Maxim thought he killed.

“Comfortable?” he asks, like it’s a genuine question.

“Where am I?”

“Somewhere your boyfriend can’t find you.” He stands and walks toward me, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. “At least, not right away.”

I try to keep my voice steady. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” He crouches down in front of me, close enough that I can see the blood vessels in his eyes. “I want Maxim Gromov to suffer. I want him to lose everything he cares about, the same way I lost everything.”

“Do you think taking me is going to accomplish that?”

“I think taking you is a start.” He reaches out and touches my hair, and I jerk away from him as much as my bonds allow. “He cares about you. I could see it that night on the road, the way he shielded you with his body, the way he looked at you like you were something precious. Maxim Gromov doesn’t look at anyone like that. He doesn’t feel anything for anyone. But you—” He tilts his head, studying me. “You’ve gotten under his skin. That makes you useful.”

“I’m not useful to anyone.”

“We’ll see about that.” He stands and walks away, calling out to someone I can’t see. “Get her on her feet. It’s time to send our message.”

The next few minutes are a blur of rough hands and pain. Two men untie me from the pipe and haul me upright, but they don’t loosen the ropes around my wrists or ankles. Instead, they drag me across the floor to a spot where the light is better, positioning me in front of what looks like a camera on a tripod.

Callum stands behind the camera, checking the angle, adjusting the focus. When he’s satisfied, he steps into the frame beside me.

“Maxim,” he says, his voice carrying the tone of a man who’s been waiting a long time to deliver this speech. “I know you’re listening, so I want you to see something.”

He grabs my hair and yanks my head back, forcing me to look at the camera. I cry out despite myself, and he laughs.