The Dark Elite (The Dark Elite 1)

But that’s a goddamn lie.

I pushed her away like it was nothing to me. Like I don’t give a shit. Then I marched her back to her room and tied her to the fucking bed.

My eyes close as I grit my teeth, remembering how she didn’t even struggle. Remembering the sight of her lying there on the bed, arms above her head, and the overwhelming urge I felt to turn around and go back to her. To crawl up on the mattress beside her and pull her into my arms.

But I left.

I just fucking left her there.

As the son of Damian Novak and his only heir, I’ve been party to some fucked up shit in my life. Sometimes bad things have to happen for our organization to thrive. But I’ve never truly felt like a monster until now.

“And now she hates you,” I mutter, speaking the truth into existence. Needing to feel the words come out of my mouth, needing to feel the full weight of my own self-loathing. “For good fucking reason.”

I do care.

I care way too fucking much.

I’ve tried to push her away. To turn off the thoughts and the craving, but none of it works. For as long as I’ve known her, even back when we were kids, Grace always had a way of getting under my skin, fucking with my heart and mind. I don’t know why I thought I could take her captive and still have the strength to resist her. I don’t know why I let myself touch her and convinced myself that one time would be enough.

Every time I let myself take what I want, I hurt her. I don’t know why I thought this time could be any different.

No. That’s bullshit. I shake my groggy head, running a hand through my hair. I can make it different this time.

I don’t have to let my damn pride get in the way like it does every time. She’s tied up in the bedroom now, probably hating my guts for being such a dick. But I can fix things.

I need to tell her how I feel. Beg for fucking forgiveness.

Swinging my legs over the bed, I stand up, my body heavy. I instantly feel nauseous from the alcohol that’s slowly working its way through my system. I’m not in great shape to be doing much of anything, but I need to go before I convince myself that I can’t.

Shuffling down the hallway, I try not to put weight on my bad leg.

“Are you okay?”

I hide my injury well. Most people in the syndicate don’t even know about it, and the pain is mostly under control. But when I get drunk or stressed, the damaged muscles and nerves in my left leg flare up, making the limp more pronounced. I took two bullets in a shootout a few years ago, and although my recovery impressed the doctors, my leg will never be one hundred percent again.

And Grace noticed.

More than that, she worried about me.

Despite what a royal prick I’ve been, despite what an asshole I was tonight, I could still hear concern in her voice as she asked about my leg.

And how did I react?

Stupid anger.

I take a breath, steadying myself at the threshold of her door. I don’t have time to think up something to say, but that’s never really been how I operate anyway. I just need to tell her I’m sorry. I just need to fix things.

There’s a desperate pang in my heart as I open the door and look at the bed.

The empty bed.

My gaze tracks from the discarded ropes on the mattress to the open bathroom door, and something cold settles in the pit of my stomach. I don’t even have to ransack the room to confirm it. I already know.

Grace is fucking gone.

Even though I woke them up in the middle of the night, Zaid, Lucas, and Ciro are completely alert as we all gather in the living room downstairs. They know that a full night of rest is rare in our line of work, and if they’re awake right now, they’re not going to bed for at least another twelve hours.

Ciro watches me with an intensity that makes me want to shrink away, a gaze that says I know. I can hide emotions really well, but I’ve never been able to hide anything from him. Ever.