Page 35 of Stolen Hearts

Rhae’s account was locked to her. But she wasn’t accessing it—at all.

Because Ravencroft was the trustee.

The minute she put in a request for a withdrawal, he would find her.

The fucker was financially abusing her.

Denver ground his molars until they ached. On one hand, if she hadn’t felt she was in danger, she might not have ended up at the ranch. But she’d been living in fear for so long.

His whole body locked as fury rolled through him, a crack of thunder that reverberated to his core.

He’d devoted his life to keeping people from living in fear.

This ends today.

He started typing, hacking into the trust account. Once he was in, he changed the name of the trustee to himself.

Yeah, it was a taunt.

Let the bastard come for me.

Yeah, he was also technically still dead, but by the time Ravencroft discovered the change, his paperwork might have come through.

He wouldn’t underestimate anybody let alone when it came to Rhae and Navy. He would put together a plan with his brothers as soon as he could gather them together.

A tap at the door brought his head up. He met Carson’s gaze.

“What are you doing?” He walked right over to the desk.

“Protecting Rhae.”

Carson’s expression shadowed. “What does Rhae need protection from?” he asked slowly.

Denver filled him in. All the while, he worked, backing out of the account after saving the change he made.

“Denver, you realize this looks like you’re in a testosterone-fueled rage, right? Have you thought this through completely?” He waved at the screen.

“Actually, yeah. I did. Rhae’s name and photo were on the website for almost forty-eight hours, plenty of time to send ahit to Ravencroft. He already knows where she is. I can either let him think that he’s winning…or I can show him she’s fully supported with the might of the Malones and the Black Heart.”

Their gazes locked.

“I went with support.”

His brother drew a deep breath. “How do you think he’s going to take that?”

“Hard to say.”

The screen blinked once. Then again.

Then the sound filled the room—abeepalerting him of a request for intel he just placed.

Denver leaned forward, jaw tight as the archived thread loaded in layers of gritty, encrypted text. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, eyes narrowing at the string of characters that had just come to life from the dark web’s depths.

There it was.

An old post, timestamped five years ago. A vetted escrow contract. An encrypted conversation chain.

Payment terms.

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