Page 81 of Vampire Soldier

Kit hangs up.

My breath punches out of me like a body blow, leaving me doubled over. But only for a moment. Then I straighten.

Ambrose is already in the doorway, a phone to his ear. “We know where he is. The feed confirms it. He’s at The Place,” he says without preamble. He looks at me as he hangs up. “Malachi’s been informed.”

I surge to my feet but he’s already gone, as if vanished into thin air. My phone clatters to the couch as I move, every nerve on fire with the need to go. To run. To get her. Eloise is suddenly there, catching my arm before I can storm toward the door.

“Wait—”

“No. I have to get to her. I have to go now.”

But instead of arguing, she grabs my shoulders. Her grip is firm, grounding. “I know, we’re going with you,” she says. “Ambrose is already pulling the car around. Let’s go.”

There’s no more discussion. I tear down the hallway beside her, adrenaline thundering through my body. The marble gives way to cold cement and exhaust-slicked air as we hit the garage beneath the clan house. Ambrose is already behind the wheel of a sleek Subaru WRX.

I slide into the back seat without hesitation, the door barely shut before we’re speeding into the dark.

I’m coming, baby.

Hold on just a little longer.

ChapterThirty-Two

MALACHI

The Place is shrouded in chaos as I tear through the front doors, Kasar and Ashe right behind me. Beneath my feet, the marbled floor trembles like it knows the weight of the storm brewing in my chest. Nightfall has draped the building in thick shadows, but my senses pulse with life, drawing my gaze indiscriminately across the flurry of guests being ushered toward the exits, a swarm of bodies caught in the brass and velvet of our grand opening.

“Perry!” I bark, following the faint scent of blood rising in the air as it floods through the silence—sharp and red, mingling with the aroma of terror and gourmet dishes. The staff is evacuating the guests, but not a single one of them is the face I want to see.

Perry meets me halfway, brow glistening with sweat, clipboard cradled against his chest. He’s focused, unrelenting, but even I can see the edges of panic splintering through his carefully composed façade. “Malachi,” he gasps, falling into step beside me, our urgency becoming a shared pulse. “I started evacuating the moment you hung up. The staff went through the back door. Should I call the police or?—”

“We’ll take care of it,” I snap, ripping my gaze from his as adrenaline flares and a familiar scent hits my senses.

Charlie.

“Where is he?” My voice is a growl, low and feral.

“Backstage with the dancers,” Perry urges, urgency licking the edges of his tone. “They said he just stormed back there. I don’t know if he?—”

But I’m already moving. I don’t give a damn about the staff’s fear or the patrons shuffling away. Nothing matters but my daughter.

My heartbeat thrums in my ears, drowning out the rising murmur of evacuations and the creaking wood floors beneath my boots. On the main floor, the last patrons are finally clearing out, but my eyes see through the chaos left behind, singling out every shred of threat. Each shadowy corner potentially holding a trap waiting for me to spring.

As I push deeper into the restaurant’s heart, the air thick with the familiar fragrances of jasmine and thyme, mixed with something metallic and wrong, I am cognizant of the descending weight of dread curling in my stomach. If Kit has dared to touch Charlie, to even come close to harming what I consider mine, I will make him pay in blood. Each silent promise coils behind my teeth, a restraint barely contained by practice and will.

Kasar and Ashe flanking me like a protective vice. My senses feed me their adrenaline, their readiness to engage as we pass the grand dining area dimmed with shadows, the remnants of the crowd washing away like discarded tide. Each step brings tension into focus, sharpening my instincts against the echoes of whispered panic that linger in the air.

“Kit!” I roar out the single syllable, ignoring the cries from those still crowding the front entry. “Where are you?”

The sound of my voice reverberates through the vast expanse of The Place, the perfectly designed acoustics amplifying my challenge. The remnants of tonight’s extravagant opening linger like a bittersweet aftertaste: champagne flutes abandoned on tables, half-eaten plates of food, cloth napkins crumpled like bruised silk across polished wood.

The stage looms up ahead, the programmed lighting effects still running. The curtain on the left ripples before Kit strides to center stage. He’s dragging a struggling Charlie.

The sight is a knife in the breastbone—my heart doesn’t just seize, it stops.

She’s not crying. She’s not screaming. She’s fighting back, and those wide eyes—bright with stubborn fire—lock on me the second I step into view.

“Mal!” she calls, voice clear and strong. She turns her gaze back to Kit, the pure confidence that only a child can have on her face. “You’re in deep shit now! I told you he was going to come and fuck you up.”

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