"We should take this inside," Conner says. "Avery's freezing and needs to get cleaned up."

Devon glances towards me for the first time. His face immediately transforms several times, the hard rage in his expression turns to surprise and concern, and then back to a cold, deadly anger.

"What do we do with him?" Ty asks, nodding towards the man.

"I'll get rid of him. It won't take long," Devon says.

He means it. This isn't figuratively speaking, like most people when they say they'll kill somebody.

They actually intend to kill this man and hide the body. Who are they, really?

Then, something clicks into place in my head.

"No, you can't kill him," I say. "He said something about wanting to take Elena but that she got away. I think he's the one kidnapping and killing the singers in the city."

"Then I absolutely will kill him," Devon says, voice razor sharp.

"You have to give him to the police. For the families. Besides, what if some of the victims are still alive?"

Devon pushes past Bastian and crouches to fist Carl's jacket collar, lifting his head from the cement. "Did you take the other singers?

"Yeah," he says, a gurgling laugh coming out with the word.

"We need to take this somewhere private," Conner hisses, "before anyone sees us with him."

"No," I insist. "You have to call the police now so they can question him. The other singers—they might be—"

"What he knows," Ty say, hitching his chin at Carl, "we can't let the police hear."

Cold chips at my bones. I really don't know these men...

"That's right." Carl spits a mouthful of blood on the asphalt. "I know too much for you to call the police. What are you going to do, now, rich boy? Call your daddy to clean up your mess?"

I frown. It was as if Carl wanted them to kill him.

"You know that's not how this works with me," Devon tells him. "Take her inside. Ty, Bastian, stay with me. We'll do what needs to be done."

"But what about—" I protest.

Conner is already pulling me away. His lips brush the shell of my ear. "They'll find out what he's done before getting rid of him. You can't do anything else here, come on."

I let him lead me, too weak and out of my depths to argue. If they're willing to kill this man, what else are they capable of?

I tremble at that thought, but Conner, thinking I'm cold, holds me closer to his body, helping me towards the building's back door.

And I feel safe. Completely safe.

Is this some kind of Stockholm effect? That I feel safe with men who are practically forcing me to work at their club, not letting me date or live where I want, who run their illegal business with the threat of violence?

Something to ask my therapist, if I had one...

But I can't deny that I don't feel threatened.

Conner takes me inside, through the back and quickly to Devon's office. My cheeks burn at the sight of the cleared desk, files, laptop, things scattered on the floor. Conner barely notices. He immediately ushers me in and finds a well-used first aid kit.

"We should wash your face," he mutters. He opens a cabinet—a wet-bar. Of course, there's a fully stocked wet-bar in this office, too. I lean over the antique marble sink and splash cold water on my face.

A small gasp of pain escapes my lips.

"Ah, baby," he whispers, hands gentle and warm on my back. "It's all right now."

He doctors the cuts and scrapes on my face, shoulders, and hands. And has me take off my pants to get to my knees.

A second too late, I remember I don't have on any panties.

His gaze heats to molten lava briefly at my nakedness, nostrils flared.

For several heartbeats, neither of us moves.

Then he hands me a blanket from another cabinet and he's all business. My cheeks are aflame the entire time, remembering how I took off my pants half an hour earlier that night. But this time, with Conner's eyes on me, it's different.

I trust him utterly. I trust him to not hurt me, to not try something tonight when I've been scared and hurt by another man, I trust him to keep me safe.

I'm asleep on the sofa, head cradled in his lap when the others return.

Conner touches my shoulder, waking me. My head is filled with fog—it must be three or four in the morning.

Devon, Ty and Bastian file into the office, grim faced.

"We need to talk," Devon says flatly.

*** ONC 740 word count. Thank you so much for reading and have a fabulous day! ***