Page 85 of Rescuing Aria
Wolfe is manipulating me. Using personal details to build credibility before the larger lies come. He must be.
Because none of that can be true.
But how does he know about the lilacs? About the Fleetwood Mac song? About details, I myself had forgotten until he mentioned them?
I close my eyes, trying to focus on what matters. Jon is alive. My father, too. I’m not in immediate danger. I need to stay calm, gather information, and look for opportunities to escape.
But Wolfe’s parting words echo, impossible to dismiss.
My mother’s favorite flowers were lilacs, not roses. I remember the scent of them in our garden, the way she would bury her face in the purple blooms each spring.
Yet every year on her birthday, my father placed roses on her grave.
TWENTY-THREE
Jon
Cold water shocks me awake.
I gasp, choking as it streams down my face and soaks the collar of my shirt. My head pounds with the aftermath of the sedative, mouth cotton dry, muscles aching from being held in one position too long.
“Good morning, Mr. Knutt.” Wolfe’s voice carries the faintest trace of an accent—one that wasn’t in any of our intelligence files. “I apologize for the accommodations.”
I blink water from my eyes, taking stock through the disorientation. Metal chair, wrists and ankles secured with proper restraints, not zip ties. Concrete room, perhaps fifteen by fifteen feet. Single door, heavy steel. No windows. One camera in each corner. Temperature cool but not uncomfortable.
And Damien Wolfe, seated across from me in a chair that doesn’t belong in this prison cell—antique leather, expensively worn. The kind of chair you’d find in a private study. His suit is different from earlier. Still perfectly tailored, but now a deep navy rather than charcoal. I’ve been unconscious long enough for him to change clothes.
“Where is she?” My voice comes out ragged, throat raw from the gas.
What time is it?
“Ah.” He smiles slightly. “No questions about your location? No demands to be released? No threats about what Guardian HRS will do when they find you? Just concern for Ms. Holbrook. How touching.”
I remain silent, conserving my energy and gathering intel. Every second he talks, I gain valuable information. The room is soundproofed—the heavy door and concrete construction confirm this. No ambient noise filters through, which means we could be anywhere—a warehouse, a bunker, or an office building with a renovated interior.
“She’s quite comfortable, I assure you. Unlike her father.” Wolfe leans forward, elbows on his knees like we’re having a casual chat instead of sitting across from a predator. “You’ve chosen an interesting woman to protect. Aria Holbrook isn’t what she seems. Neither is Marcus.”
Blood roars in my ears.
My fists clench slow and tight, my fingers curling as much as they can with the restraints. “If you’ve hurt her?—”
“I would never harm her.” He raises a hand, placating. Mocking.
“Liar.”
“It’s the truth.” He leans back, crossing one leg over the other with that same calculated ease. His gaze sharpens, cutting into me like a scalpel, quiet and precise. “Though I wonder if the same can be said for her father.”
My pulse spikes. My muscles coil, ready to snap. But I don’t move. Not yet. He wants a reaction. Wants me off balance. Wants to remind me she’s in his hands.
He doesn’t get what he wants.
Instead, I lock eyes with him and let him see it—that if he’s touched her, even once, even wrong, I’ll rip this room apart brick by brick.
“Never harmed her? You kidnapped her… Twice. Drugged her. Locked her in a cage. Planned to sell her like property?—”
“I wasnevergoing to sell her. That was for Marcus’s benefit.”
“Does it matter? You used her as leverage, and she suffered as a result.” The metal of the restraints bite into my wrists. I don’t raise my voice. Don’t flinch. But every word lands like a warning shot.
