Page 68 of Gunnar

“Could be,” Mattis agrees. “Or it could be part of a longer word. The enhancement is only giving me partial clarity. But I can cross-reference this with the handful of properties I’ve found linked to Jake and his company. He owns more than you’d think—shell corporations, holding companies—all carefully hidden behind layers of legal obfuscation.”

“Do it,” I command, my foot still tapping and eyes never leaving the photo of Devyn. “Do it now. Every property, every address, every location he’s ever been associated with.”

The line goes quiet except for the sound of typing and Mattis’s breathing with the same urgency I feel. “Here,” he says finally, his voice sharp with discovery. “I’ve got three properties that match the parameters. Two are commercial spaces in areas that don’t match the visual profile. But the third… the third is perfect. An industrial area near downtown, a warehouse district that was gentrifying before the economy turned. The property is located across the street from Marshall Manufacturing. There’s your sign.”

“Address,” I demand, already pushing back from the table.

“Gunnar, listen,” Mattis continues, his voice urgent. “‘Renovation project,’ according to the paperwork. But the utilities are active, and there’s been regular delivery service to the address. Food, furniture, building supplies. And the security system was upgraded six months ago—top-of-the-line, with motion sensors, cameras, the works. He’s been preparing for this.”

“Address,” I growl.

Mattis rattles off the address, and I commit it to memory. After swiping the keys from the table, I race toward the door. Toward the woman I love more than my own life, a sentiment I thoroughly regret not having shared with her yet.

“Gunnar,” Hawk barks. His voice is sharp and commanding, trying to pierce through the red haze that’s descended over my vision. “We need a plan. We can’t just go in blind. He has security, he has⁠—”

“Devyn.” I stop with my hand on the doorframe, my entire being screaming at me to move, to tear the world apart until I find her. I take a deep breath before turning to face my brothers. “You might need a plan. You might need to approach this carefully, with tactics and contingencies. But I’ve seen what that sick fuck plans to do to her. I’ve read his fantasies. I know exactly what happens when the playing stops and reality begins. And I need to go get her. Now. Before he starts. Before he hurts her in ways that can’t be undone. Before I lose her forever.”

I head toward the SUV without waiting for their response. When I reach the vehicle, I hear them behind me, my brothers following despite their reservations. They know me well enough to know I won’t be stopped. I know them well enough to know they’ll have my back and be the support I can’t be for myself right now.

The engine roars to life beneath my hands, and I tear out of the driveway, gravel spraying behind us like gunfire.

“I’m coming, baby girl.”

Hold on. Daddy’s coming.

“Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it, trembling over my lips as I sit on the edge of the bed, the chain around my ankle rattling softly with every shift of my weight. The blue dress Jake chose for me feels like a costume, like I’m playing a role I never auditioned for in a production I can’t escape.

Jake paces in front of me, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. His eyes are wide, and his hair is disheveled, his hands fluttering through the air as if conducting an invisible orchestra. He’s spiraling, speaking in fragments that barely form coherent thoughts. This is a far cry from the smooth professionalism I’m used to.

“Why?” he repeats, with a sharp, broken laugh that echoes off the concrete walls. “You ask me why? As if you don’t know. As if you haven’t known since the moment you walked into my office with your portfolio, hope, and your perfect face.”

He stops pacing and stares at me, his expression shifting between adoration and a dark hunger, the latter of which makes my skin crawl. Actually, they both make my skin crawl. This is the face of a man who has replaced reality with fantasy so completely that he can no longer tell the difference.

“I love you,” he confesses, the words devoid of any softness. “From the first second. The first breath. You walked through that door in your cheap, thrifted clothes and your hopeful smile… and I knew. I knew you were meant to be mine. I knew we were destined for each other; written in the stars. Fated.”

He resumes pacing, his voice rising and falling, cracking with emotion that has festered in the dark for years. “But you never saw me. You looked through me. Past me. At the cameras, at the directors, at the fucking producers who wanted to use you and discard you. I protected you from them. I built your career. I made you who you are. And you never once looked at me like… like…”

“Like what?” I ask, choking on the question as my heart beats so hard I can feel it in my throat.

“Like you saw me!” he roars, and I flinch, the chain rattling sharply. He catches himself, his expression softening with disturbing speed. He kneels before me, his hands finding mine where they clutch the edge of the bed. “Like you saw me,” he repeats, quieter, his thumbs stroking my knuckles with a gentleness that makes me want to vomit. “I watched you for years, my love. Years. Watched you date and fuck celebrity assholes who didn’t deserve to breathe your air, let alone violate your perfect body.”

His grip tightens, his fingers digging into my skin. I force myself not to pull away or show fear, trying not to do anything that might trigger the violence simmering beneath his surface.

The director who tried to guilt you into letting him take your innocence,” he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I created a slurry of allegations so deep, he was run out of Hollywood. That actor from your second film… The one who told everyone you were frigid because you wouldn’t sleep with him on set. I destroyed his career. The musician who OD’d. The man who cheated on you with some social media influencer. And Colton… Colton, who dared to spike your drink at that party a few years ago when he was still a nobody… I’ve been planning his destruction for years.”

I stare at him in horror. All those men. All those disasters. All the “bad luck” that seemed to follow every relationship I had before Gunnar. Jake destroyed them because they touched what he believed belonged to him.

“And then him,” Jake spits, his expression twisting with revulsion. “That animal. That bodyguard. That nothing of a man. You let him put his hands on you. You let him inside you. You let him claim you, make you his whore as I was forced to watch… When you should’ve been… You should’ve been…”

“Yours?” I finish, the word like ash on my tongue.

“Yes!” He releases my hands and rises, resuming his pacing to release the energy too chaotic to contain. “Mine! Always mine! I built you. I created you. I invested everything in you, and you gave yourself to a man who kills people for money. A man who doesn’t understand your art, your soul, and your delicate perfection. A man who treats you like… like…”

“His whore,” I suggest, swallowing my disgust, forcing my face into an expression of hurt rather than fear.

He stops and stares at me, confusion flickering across his features. I’ve used this expression before—in films and auditions when I needed to convey wounded vulnerability while hiding my true feelings. Every second spent honing my craft and every skill I’ve developed over years of acting out emotions I didn’t feel, I pour into this moment.

“I didn’t know,” I mutter, my voice carefully calibrated to sound soft and wounded. “I didn’t know you felt this way. All these years… I thought you were my friend. My protector. My agent. I never knew you wanted…”