He’d vanished, leaving her alone in Ryodan’s glass house.

Now she glanced around, shrugged, stood up, and set about ransacking it.

Only to find his office as void of personal information about the man as the man himself. The piles of paperwork he used to have were nowhere to be seen, his file cabinets window-dressing, stocked with empty folders, confirming her suspicion that he’d never actually been doing anything other than torturing her. There wasn’t even a single pen or pencil in his drawer.

She narrowed her eyes, remembering the hidden panel where he’d once kept her contract, wondering how many other hidden panels the man had. She’d searched the obvious places. Ryodan was anything but obvious.

She kicked his chair back, knelt on the floor and began feeling around on the desk: top, sides, legs. After a moment she closed her eyes and turned off her brain, dumping her entire awareness into her hands, feeling for the slightest anomaly. It didn’t take her long to find one.

When the panel slid out, she opened her eyes and resumed her seat in the chair. Before her was a shallow drawer with row after row of smooth, square black buttons. She began punching them in order, glancing intently around the office, waiting for something to happen.

The monitors. The bloody monitors. Of course the man-who-would-be-king had a spyglass to watch every inch of his club while perched high atop his lofty throne.

She punched, watched, and punched again as various private areas of the club appeared and passed from view. Nothing much interesting going on.

Wait, what?

She went back two buttons. She’d just caught a glimpse of Kat, who’d been missing for weeks.

There she was again, with Kasteo. They reclined, side by side, on forty-five-degree benches, before an enormous mirror, doing dumbbell wide-flies in perfect rhythm.

Katarina was developing biceps.

Lats, too.

She stared in disbelief. Delicate, serene, empathic Katarina McLaughlin was living at Chester’s, deep underground, molding herself into a warrior? How had she persuaded one of the Nine, especially the legend that didn’t speak, to teach her anything? Did Ryodan know she was here?

Of course he did. They were his monitors.

Her scowl turned thunderous. Kasteo was training Kat, yet Ryodan refused to teach her a bloody thing. She was far better raw material than cautious, slender Katarina McLaughlin. She was a freaking Valkyrie, forged of steel with the sword to prove it!

“You are so on my shit list, Ryodan.” She was abruptly in exactly the right mood to cut off his head without puking, without regretting it one bit. Maybe even enjoying it. Hacking it off over and over again until he agreed to set her up with her own trainer.

She punched another button. Watched. Inhaled sharply and punched that one off. Level 4 was no place to get distracted by right now. But she’d just glimpsed up close and personal one of the Nine she’d encountered only a single time before and from a distance—the day Barrons had brought his men to the abbey to bust Pri-ya Mac out. The day all Nine of them had stalked in, some heavily hooded, others bareheaded with burning eyes, all toting automatic weapons.

She pressed another button.

And froze.

She wouldn’t have thought anything could stun her more than the oddity of Kat with Kasteo, but this new vision shocked her into muteness and immobility.

When she finally managed to unfreeze her tongue, she whispered, “Holy leaping Lazarus—he’s alive?”

And no one had told her. How was this even possible? Just whose body had Ryodan sent home to the Highlands to be buried?

She narrowed her eyes. Christian was with him, a tall, dark shadow, wings furled, standing a dozen feet away. Christian knew. Who else? Everyone but her?

The door whisked open and Barrons stood in the opening, with Mac at his side, Fade and Lor behind him.

She stood instantly, easing the panel closed with her thigh, counting on them being too preoccupied to glance up at the monitors. Few people looked up. Most people tunneled blithely through their days, noticing only what was at eye level.

“Dani,” Mac said with a faint smile. “It’s good to see you.”

Once she’d called Mac TP, short for “that person,” because each time she’d said or even thought her name, her heart hurt. But last night they’d talked like they once used to, like peas in the Mega Pod, almost like sisters. Mac had forgiven her, sacrificed herself to save her, and the block of ice around her heart had begun to thaw.

“It’s Ja— Hey, Mac.” Really, what did it matter? Not only was it inefficient to constantly keep correcting her, Mac knew she was different now and had accepted that. The primary reason she’d rechristened herself Jada was to encourage sidhe-seers who’d known her as a troublesome teen to accept her as their leader; a thing they’d never have done if she’d introduced herself as the girl they so recently knew as the swaggering, cocky, insouciant Mega.

“Dani, honey, turn off the monitors,” Lor said tightly.

Her nostrils flared and she shot him a frosty look. They should have told her what was going on, and Mac had a right to know, too. Either they were a team or they weren’t. Clearly, they weren’t. “I didn’t say you could call me Dani. Or honey. Only people who don’t keep secrets from me get to call me those things. It’s Jada to you.” Then she turned the warmth back on and said to Mac, “Are you okay?”

Scowling, Lor stalked to the desk, punched buttons, slammed the panel closed then moved back to the door, where he stood, legs wide, powerful arms folded across his chest.