Page 33 of Ruin Me
“Fine,” Callum says, and there’s no doubt he wants to be on the hunt. His whole life has been a chess game played in blood and shadows, and Vogue’s abduction is a move he didn’t anticipate.
“Harry, you good?” he asks calmly, but I know all hell will break loose soon.
“Here’s better than dead,” he grunts, a shadow of a smirk on his face.
“Quentin, patch him up the best you can,” Callum orders.
Vogue is out there, somewhere, and every second that ticks by is another second too long. We will find her, and when we do, the bloodshed will be coating our hands.
Callum strides over to the window, his back to me, his posture rigid. He’s staring out at the campus, but I know he’s not really seeing it. His mind is working overtime, just like mine, trying to piece together the fractured image of what happened here.
“They were clean and professional,” Harry says quietly. “They weren’t expecting me to be here, but there were four. Two went for me, two for Vogue. I hit one of them, but it didn’t slow him down.”
“Figures,” Callum mutters. He finally turns, and there’s a storm brewing in his eyes. It’s the look of aman who’s seen too much and done too much but won’t be stopped by any of it. “What were you doing here?”
“Sleeping.”
Callum nods. “And Vogue?”
“She was in the kitchen when they took her.”
“Why were you here?”
“Does it matter? They fucking took her!” Quen bursts out, coming out of the bathroom with a small first aid box that probably won’t do shit for Harry’s shoulder.
We’ve all lost people before, been through hell and back. This life is just another battle in a never-ending war. We’ll burn everything to the ground, salt the earth beneath it. Whatever it takes to get Vogue back and make sure the ones who took her regret ever crossing our path.
“Through and through,” Quentin’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He’s on his knees beside Harry, who is now looking more furious than in pain.
Good. We’re going to need that.
Quentin rummages through the first aid kit, yanking out bandages with more force than finesse. His hands are steady, though, as he presses a pad against the wound, taping it down. Harry hisses but manages a nod, thanking him without words.
“Keep pressure on it,” Quentin instructs. He might not have had Callum’s childhood of privilege or mafia mentorship, but Quentin’s sharp, street-smart—picked up more skills than most would in twice hislife, and right now, he’s the closest thing to a medic we’ve got.
Callum’s usual cool control is edged with something raw. Vogue is not just another pawn in our game. She’s more to all of us.
The flat seems to shrink, and the walls close in with tension. Every second she’s gone, the danger grows. I push back against the fear and let training ground it out. Emotions are liabilities.
“They had to have a car, so we follow the trail. CCTV, street cams, anything,” Callum states.
Then, the shrill ring of a phone shatters the silence, and we all jerk towards Cal. He snatches it from his pocket with movements so swift they blur.
We wait, breaths held, for him to break the silence.
19
CALLUM
“Talk,”I grit my teeth as I answer the phone, knowing it will be whoever took Vogue. As expected, it’s a no-caller ID number.
“Ah, Callum Wakefield, good of you to answer so quickly.” The voice is twisted, unrecognisable through whatever tech they’re using to hide their identity. My heart doesn’t race—I don’t let it. Instead, coldness seeps into my veins, a familiar friend in times like this.
“Who the hell is this?” I keep my words clipped; my tone is as icy as the look I know is on my face. Quentin rises from Harry’s side, Thayer’s eyebrow quirks up, and Harrison leans back, all eyes on me now.
“Names aren’t important right now, but what we have is.” The distorted voice has a smugness that makes my skin crawl. “We’ve got your little bird, Vogue. Quite the catch, isn’t she?”
The others are watching me closely. The thoughtof Vogue alone is enough to make my blood boil, but my expression remains a mask of frost carved from years of necessity.
