Page 61

I don’t see anything else of interest or any tech for Dax to hack into. I head toward the bookcases to check out the titles. I’ve always been a strong believer that what someone reads gives the most accurate insight into who they truly are. I’m not about to miss a chance to learn more about this asshole.

Not with Idril’s safety on the line.

I don’t have a lot of time, so I have to clutch to each and every thread I find and pull until something unravels. I can’t handle knowing she lives with someone who brings Severed into their home and is obviously trafficking Omegas.

It can’t be money. The male has millions to his name and doesn’t do much with it. It’s something else… but what?

“This guy really has a hard-on for Nietzsche.” I run a gloved finger over the leather spines, my stomach twists with dread.

“Nothing like a little nihilism to spice up your personal library,” Dax mutters.

“I doubt he reads them,” I scoff. “None of the spines look like they’ve even been cracked.”

I pull out a hard copy of Beyond Good and Evil. Seems fucking fitting for this jackass. As it slips from its place in the row of books, I hear a distinct snick, and jump back when something bumps into my thigh.

I glance down, a grin spreading across my face.

“Holllyyyy fuck,” I whistle, crouching down to inspect my accidental discovery.

“What?”

Dax hates when he can’t get eyes inside on missions and has to wait for play-by-play. He’s going to be really pissed he missed out on this.

“There’s a hidden compartment.” I chuckle, kind of shocked the words are leaving my mouth. “Popped right out when I pulled out one of his books.”

Dax groans. “Gods, it’s like he’s trying to fit every evil villain stereotype available.”

A light clicks on inside the two-foot-long freezer refrigeration system as I peer inside, anxious to see what the asshole is hiding.

The moment my eyes land on the glass vials, all neatly labeled and aligned, I spit out a string of curses.

“Blood,” I snarl, disgusted. “He’s got vials of blood in here.”

There are choking sounds from Daxen’s end, followed by a drawer slamming shut and an urgent, “Are they labeled?”

I pluck one out of its row and turn the label so it’s facing me.

“Yup. This one says, Asset Z-1. Sample 7B. O-Fem slash NH. Assigned: B.R.” I frown. “Any idea what the fuck that means?”

“No clue. Take photos and send them to me. All of them.” Dax’s hands are already flying over his keyboard.

“I’ll do you one better.”

There must be at least ten vials of blood in here, all labeled in the same clinical fashion. I take as many photos as possible, making sure to get clear shots of the labels—then palm the first one I picked up and slide it into my pocket.

Zero fucking regrets. In fact, it feels strangely satisfying knowing I’m taking something of Varenthrall’s.

I’ve never been someone who lets missions get to me personally—I’ve always been able to shut that part of me off and focus. It’s not that I lack empathy. More like I learned a long time ago, that the best thing I can do for those who need my help is to never let my emotions get involved. That’s the quickest way to make stupid decisions.

Dax is right about that, at least. I can’t even argue with him, because it’s the same philosophy I’ve held my entire time as a Bastard.

This mission, though—this is different. In ways I can’t even explain to myself, let alone my packmate.

I know eventually he’ll understand why I’m acting the way I am, but there are things I have to do before I can come clean.

Most importantly, I need to get Jonathan Varenthrall out of the fucking picture.

Permanently.