Page 32 of Ruin Me
“What the fuck?” I growl. “Harry!” The name punches out of me as I rapidly approach. He looks up, eyes glazed with pain and fear. The gun he’s holding is slack in his grasp like it’s suddenly too heavy for him.
“Thayer. It’s Vogue. They took her,” he rasps.
I push the panic down hard. There’s no time for that now. My hands go to his shoulder, gentle but swift, peeling back the soaked cloth to see the wound. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s messy, and it’s going to hurt like hell.
“Bullet grazed you,” I mutter. “You’ll live.”
He nods, breath hitching. “Tried to stop them,” he manages to say, his grip on the gun unyielding despite the tremor in his hand. “Four of them. They took her, Thayer.”
“Who?” But even as I ask, I know the answer doesn’t matter right now. What matters is Vogue is gone, and we have to get her back. That’s all there is to it.
“Didn’t see,” he says, and it’s a struggle for him, I can tell. “Masks.”
Dragging my phone out of my jacket pocket, I steadily bring up Callum’s number, faster than I’ve ever dialled before. The ring cuts through the morning air, harsh and demanding.
“Thayer,” Callum answers, no hello, just straight to the point like always. “What is it?”
“Vogue’s been taken,” I say, the words tasting like acid on my tongue. “Harry’s hurt, but he’ll live.”
“Where are you?” There’s ice in his tone, a deadly calm that promises violence.
“Outside her flat. I’m going inside.”
“Wait for us. Five minutes.” He hangs up without another word.
Five minutes. It feels like a lifetime when every second counts. But Callum’s not one to waste time; he and Quen will be here in under five.
I pocket my phone and glance at Harry, who’s trying to stand straighter, masking his pain. “Back upstairs.”
He gives a sharp nod, jaw set in determination.
“Thayer…” Harry’s voice is a rough whisper.
“I know,” I grit out, even though every cell in my body wants to shoot him between the eyes. How could he let this happen? The rational part of my brain struggles with the morally black part of me, knowing there must have been extenuating circumstances. Harry, like the rest of us, doesn’t fail unless there’s a reason.
Whatever that is, it had better be a good one, or Callum will see him six feet under before anyone else can.
I shove the broken door to Vogue’s flat. It’s been kicked in and is hanging off its hinges. The place is trashed, furniture strewn all over, a teacup smashed on the kitchen floor, and blood all over. Harrison leans against the wall, his face paler than the torn wallpaper, but he’s on his feet, which has to count for something.
“You get one of them?” I ask.
“Yeah. He will also live, un-fucking-fortunately.”
“No clues?” I ask him, scanning the wreckage for anything that might point to who took her.
“None. Could be anyone.” He winces as he shifts, clutching his shoulder.
Shit. There are multiple rival factions, each as hungry for power as the next, all of them knowing that taking Vogue would be a direct stab at us. But this feels personal, like someone’s trying to twist the knife. It could be the East End Kings; they’ve been itching to get back at us since the last turf war. Or maybe the Black Vipers, known for their love of sending messages through blood and fear. Whoever it is, they’ll pay.
The air hangs thick with the unspoken threat of violence. It’s a tang I’m familiar with, one that settles into your skin and doesn’t wash off easy. We need to act fast before they dig their claws in any deeper.
Footsteps sound on the stairs, and I spin around, ready for a fight—but it’s just Callum and Quentin arriving in a rush of urgency.
“Any ideas?” Callum asks, his eyes darting around the room, always thinking three steps ahead.
“It could be anyone,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “But we start with the usual suspects. Shake down some informants, see who’s talking too much.”
Quentin crouches by a shattered picture frame, his brain ticking behind those focused eyes.
