The gun was pointed at her.
Elena didn't blink. Presley’s face was a polite mask stretched over something rotten. His eyes, usually so carefully blank, held a flat, surgical light.
“Where’s the backpack, Elena?” Presley said, His voice firm. The sound of her first name rolling off his lips felt so foreign and wrong.
“It’s not here.”
Presley stepped closer, the gun never wavering. “Then you’ve made this unnecessarily difficult.”
Her pulse spiked. “You shoot me, you lose it.”
His expression didn’t change. “You assume you’re the only way to find it.”
“What about the men outside?” she said. Her voice sounded distant. “The ones Stern talked about.” What if one of them finds it…
“Taken care of, Miss Rossi.” Presley’s tone was the same one he used to discuss dinner wine. “They won’t be troubling us.”
Good. Then the bag is safe. She knew she had some leverage to help.
Behind him, Xander was lying flat against the ground. Unmoving. Lisa lay against the concrete, panting as she squirmed uncontrollably. Stern was a still, blond heap a few feet away. The world had narrowed to the circle of muzzle and the man holding it.
“Why?” The word cracked. “You helped me. You shot him.”
“I removed an obstacle. Not the same thing.”
“You’re pointing a gun at my head.”
“Perceptive.” Presley’s look was different. While polite, there was a hint of aggression. Anger, he was barely holding in.
Elena’s mind, the part trained for business plans and billiard angles, scrabbled for purchase. “If you wanted me dead, you’d have pulled the trigger. You need something. What?”
Presley’s polite smile tightened. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I need you to understand your place. You’ve been a significant disruption, Miss Rossi. A pain in my ass from the moment the child Thorn began to deviate.”
“The child?”
“Liam Thorn.” The name was a curse in his mouth. “The plan was simple. You were the tool. A pretty, naive pressure point to bring the hacker here.” He nodded toward Lisa’s prone form. “She stole from Stern. Stern wanted her back. We let him take her. Let him think he had the upper hand. The confrontation was meant to eliminate Thorn and secure the girl’s talents for… other purposes. Clean. Ordered. Only problem was her little bag mixup… Ruined all of it.”
The cold from the concrete seeped through Elena’s shoes. “Liam used me.”
Presley’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Used you?” he echoed softly.
He took a step closer, the gun steady. “No, Elena. He had intent—just not for you.”
His gaze dragged over her, dismissive. “You were in proximity. A means to reach something else.”
A moment passed. Then quieter—sharper, he continued, “Until he forgot what you were and tried to feel love.”
The word ‘love’ hit her like a physical blow. She thought of Liam’s hands on her skin, his apology in the steamy pool, the raw panic in his eyes when Victor hurt. Did he love her? Isn’t it just another layer of the game?
“It disgusts me,” Presley continued, his voice dropping, heating. “To watch a Thorn play at sentiment. After what they took from me.”
“What did they take?”
The gun didn’t waver, but his eyes did. For a second, the professional was gone, replaced by a raw, aging grief. “Rosa. She was meticulous and Kind. She one day got an ‘amazing’ job, working for them. The Thorns. She worked in their archives as a historian.” He swallowed. “She found something. She called me, her voice on the phone… it was shaky. She said she’d found something disturbing. Something scary. She needed to tell me as soon as possible. We arranged to meet. She never arrived.”
Elena watched a tear trace a path through the fine dust on his cheek. He didn’t seem to notice.
“They called it a mugging. In an alley two blocks from where we were going to meet. Her throat was cut. Her belongings were gone. The investigation was closed in forty-eight hours. Swept away by some great, silent power.” His finger rested alongside the trigger, pale against the dark metal. “The Thorns killed my love. They took everything. My future. My peace. I wasn’t going to stand for it. I took a position in his house. I waited. I am going to end the Thorn line. Root and branch. Including the boy who thinks he deserves to be loved. And now, you, the girl who made him soft, will be included for getting so connected and involved. I am going to kill you in front of him to make him suffer, like his family made me suffer.”
His knuckle whitened. Elena’s body screamed to flinch, to run, but the cold circle on her skin held her frozen. This was it. This was the price.
A wet cough shattered the moment. Coming from the heap that was Stern.
Presley’s head snapped toward the sound, his focus breaking for a split second. It was all she had.
Elena didn’t think. She dropped. Not backward, but forward and down, under the line of the gun. Her shoulder slammed into Presley’s midsection. The air left him in a shocked *oof*. The gun roared.
The shot went high, punching a hole in the corrugated metal roof somewhere above. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Elena wrapped her arms around his legs, a desperate, graceless tackle. They went down together in a tangle of tailored wool and limbs.
She was on top for a second. She saw his face, and the grief vanished, replaced by a furious, focused hatred. He drove the butt of the revolver toward her temple.
She rolled. The metal glanced off her shoulder, a bright nova of pain. She scrambled, hands slipping in something wet—a guard’s blood. She was on her knees, then her feet, stumbling toward where Lisa lay.
Presley was already up, moving with a butler’s precise grace. He gained on her and, using his hands, grappled around her, holding her from running.
Elena went limp in his arms. Quickly recalling Victor’s training.
The sudden dead weight threw Presley’s balance off. His grip, calibrated for resistance, slackened for a fraction of a second as he adjusted.
She drove her head back with every ounce of strength left in her neck.
The back of her skull connected with the bridge of his nose. A wet, crunching pop vibrated through her bones into her teeth. He grunted, a sharp, pained sound, and his arms spasmed open.
She dropped, her knees hitting the concrete hard. She spun, scrambling on hands and knees toward the dark shape of the revolver Presley had dropped when she’d tackled him. Her fingers brushed cool metal just as a hand closed in her hair.
He yanked. The pain was blinding, white-hot threads tearing at her scalp. She screamed, a raw, animal sound, and kicked backward blindly. Her heel connected with something soft. His thigh. His grip didn’t falter.
“You stupid girl,” he hissed, his voice thick and wet. Blood poured from his nose, dripping onto the collar of his immaculate tailcoat. The polite mask was gone, replaced by a rictus of pain and fury. He dragged her backward, away from the gun. “You have no idea what you’re ruining.”
Elena clawed at his hand, her nails digging into his skin. She felt warm blood well up under her fingertips. He didn’t let go. He was stronger, his leverage perfect. He was going to drag her to the ground and finish it.
Her gaze caught on Lisa, still writhing weakly a few yards away. On Stern’s body, lying so still. The town car was a distant promise through the shattered warehouse door, too far.
Presley shifted his weight, preparing to throw her down. Elena changed tactics. She stopped fighting the pull and instead pushed up with her legs, surging backward into him.
It was a clumsy, desperate move. It crashed them both into the side of a metal shipping container. The impact drove the air from his lungs. His grip on her hair loosened. She tore free, strands ripping from her roots.
She didn’t go for the gun again. She went for him.
Her fist swung in a wild arc, connecting with his already broken nose. He roared, a guttural sound of pure agony, and backhanded her across the face.
The world exploded into static. Her vision swam, her ear ringing. She tasted blood on her lips. She staggered, but didn’t fall. She saw his hands come up, not for a punch, but for her throat.
His thumbs pressed into her windpipe. The pressure was immediate, absolute. Her breath cut off. Spots danced at the edges of her vision. She grabbed his wrists, her nails digging, but he was a statue, his eyes locked on hers with a terrifying, grieving focus.
“You are the infection,” he choked out, blood and spit spraying. “The softness. I will cut you out of him.”
Elena’s lungs burned. She kicked, her shoes scraping against his shins. Her strength was fading, seeping out into the cold air. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.
A shadow moved behind Presley.
Slow. Unsteady. Rising from the concrete like a revenant.
Ale’Xander’ Stern. His blond hair was matted from lying on the ground. His expensive shirt held a hole in his chest where his heart was… But there was no blood. Only a black hole in his suit.
In his hand, glinting dully, was the knife he’d used earlier to cut Lisa loose.
Presley, consumed by the act of killing her, didn’t see him.
“Enough, Presley. Let her go. We need her alive.”
For a fraction of a second, Presley didn’t move.
His thumbs remained buried against Elena’s throat. His grip was iron, his eyes locked on hers—fever-bright, unblinking. The pressure didn’t ease. If anything, it tightened, as if he could finish it before the world caught up.
“Elena…” Stern said again, softer this time—not to her, but to the moment. A measured warning. “If she dies, we lose the leverage. You know that.”
Presley exhaled through his teeth. The tension in his hands shifted—not gone, but recalibrated. Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his grip and let her go.
Air tore back into Elena’s lungs in a ragged, burning gasp. She doubled forward, coughing violently, her hands clawing at her own throat as if she could peel the pressure away.
Behind her, Presley stepped back once. Just once. Enough to create distance. Not enough to surrender control.
“I was simply reasserting control,” he said, his voice low, uneven beneath the polished cadence. Blood still streamed from his broken nose, dripping onto the front of his coat.
“By compromising an asset?” Stern replied.
Elena stayed on her knees, head bowed, drawing in breath after breath. Loud. Shaky. The sensations feel all too real. But her mind had already moved on. She wasn’t safe yet, not even close.
But— she is still Alive.
She could see the two were not friendly with each other, and could see how they disagreed.
She lifted her head just enough to see them through strands of hair stuck to her damp face.
Stern stood a few yards away, one hand pressed loosely against the hole in his chest. No blood. Not even a stain spreading. Just torn fabric and something dark beneath. His posture was slightly off, favoring one side—but his eyes were clear. Focused.
Calculating.
Presley stood between them, shoulders squared again, already rebuilding the mask piece by piece. The grief was gone. The fury… recontained.
Presley didn’t argue further. The moment wasn’t resolved—it was simply set aside.
“We’re done discussing it,” he said, his voice settling back into place despite the blood on his collar. “We take both.”
Stern gave a short nod. “Agreed.”
No hesitation. No debate. The decision landed hard in Elena’s chest.
Hostages.
Presley stepped in close and caught Elena’s arm, twisting it cleanly behind her back. Pain flared sharp enough to force her up onto her toes, a breath catching in her throat.
“Don’t,” he murmured near her ear, almost polite. “You’ve made your point.”
This time, she didn’t fight.
Behind them, Stern hauled Lisa upright with far less care, keeping a firm grip on her as she sagged against him.
Presley shifted his hold on Elena and reached into his coat, drawing out a length of dark rope—thin, strong, already coiled for use. Of course, he had it ready.
He pulled her wrists together behind her back and began to bind them, movements efficient and practiced. The rope slid against her skin, rougher than the restraints would have been, looping tight around her wrists before cinching down.
Elena let her weight dip suddenly, just enough to throw off his rhythm. He adjusted immediately, tightening his grip on her arm.
“Stand,” he said, a quiet edge slipping into the word.
She obeyed, pushing herself upright again, forcing her breathing to stay uneven, her movements just clumsy enough to sell it.
Presley continued without pause, wrapping the rope again, crossing it back over itself before pulling it tight. The pressure bit deeper this time, the fibers digging into her skin as he secured the knot.
But in that brief disruption—one small shift in tension—something changed.
The wrap wasn’t perfect.
One loop sat slightly higher than the others, not fully anchored, the tension uneven where it should have been uniform.
Elena felt it immediately, but knew she couldn’t react. She kept her wrists pressed and tensed tightly against the rope, letting it feel secure as he worked the knot.
Presley finished the knot with a firm, practiced pull, then tested it once before releasing her. Satisfied.
Behind them, Stern dragged Lisa forward. “We move.”
Presley nodded and took hold of Elena again, steering her toward the open warehouse door.
She stumbled once, then found her footing, head lowered, breathing uneven, giving them exactly what they expected to see.
But behind her back, her fingers had already begun to move—slow, careful, testing the rope, feeling for the slight give in that one imperfect loop.
This time, she didn’t need to fight.
She just needed to wait.