Page 92 of Savage Surrender

“There’s more,” Mason says.

The burner vibrates against the stone. A professional-looking portrait of Colleen in a royal blue dress, with curly golden-brown hair and a kind smile, fills the top half of the new image. Beneath it, six names sit beside pale green offers. A row of appointment times opens across the bottom, all of them next weekend, and two are already locked.

“Six bidders so far. Charles approves an account, the buyer chooses a time, and the site holds the payment. Two have already paid enough to lock an appointment. The option to have multiple buyers per appointment time is available.”

Freddie’s palm cracks against the counter and I jump. His breath shortens, each inhale stopping too high, but he doesn’t retreat from the screen. He leans closer until the green blocks shine across his eyes.

“Can you identify them?” he asks, and I notice his hands are trembling and his breathing has gone shaky.

“Freddie. Look at me.” I step between him and the burner. His hands close around my waist. “We’re going to get her out. Breathe for me.”

He inhales, holds, breathes out.

“Again. We’re going to save her,” I tell him.

He nods and picks up the phone. “Can you identify them?”

“No,” Mason says, quieter now. “Their details are locked down, but I’m still working on it. The Severance Unit won’t touch Charles—he’s too public—and I don’t have anyone else who can take the job. Getting her out before the appointments is the move.”

Freddie eases his hands from my waist. “Then I’ll do it.”

“We will do it. Together,” I say. “Tell me about the house, Mason.”

Another image arrives with six exterior cameras marked across it. Mason takes us around the property without waiting to be prompted: front door, interior garage door, kitchen service entrance, rear sliders into the courtyard. No dogs seen. One security contractor inside now, and a second vehicle that rotates in at night.

“Gate code?” Tristan asks.

“Still working on it. Security lets housekeeping and food delivery through, though. Nine orders since Monday. Prepared food and groceries, different services, different drivers. They get all the way to the step, set the order down, photograph it, and leave. Nobody opens the door until the gate closes behind them.”

It’s not an opening yet, but it is close enough to learn how the house breathes.

I write Colleen on the back of the sketch. Getting through the door is half the job. “We will work on a plan. Freddie needs to be the first voice she hears. We’ll need clothes, shoes, water, and first aid. Winston can look her over once she’s out. If you get new visuals, send them.”

“Yep, on it,” Mason says.

“Before you go.” Tristan taps his fingers against the counter. “Send us the bus routes between here and the house. Every connection and transfer time, and how far the last stop leaves us from the address. Keep your investigator on the place too. Shift changes, deliveries, when a vehicle comes and goes. Anything that starts looking like a pattern.”

“I’ll check in later. Stay out of trouble.”

The call ends and Weller hands me a bottle of water, then checks my forehead before addressing all of us. “We’ll wait for more intel from Mason, but work on an extraction plan in the meantime. The car at the airport isn’t an option - the drone has footage of it.”

Freddie’s breathing is even now, but the chain around his neck is still wrapped twice around his fingers.

Waiting is the right call. I still hate it.

I tap the pencil against my forehead. “What do we do with Charles?”

“You’re not going, Princess,” Owen says gruffly.

I look up and squint at him. “Just because I have your mark on my neck doesn’t mean I answer to you.”

“You’re wrong, but even if there was no mark, I still wouldn’t let you go. Not right now. Not like this.”

“Be reasonable, Bianca.” Weller’s voice is incredulous, stern. “You could start your heat. Your face has been plastered all over the news. A gala full of people just saw a video of you they won’t soon forget. Colleen needs help, and that’s what we’re going to do, but we’re not handing you over to Montgomery or Charles.”

I look at Tristan, who doesn’t say anything, but I can tell I’m on my own.

Oh okay.