Throne of Truth

No, we won’t.

“Okay.” I cut the call before I could tell him that I’d get Greg’s whereabouts, but I wouldn’t take him as reinforcements. His health had only just improved. I wouldn’t risk him as well as Elle.

I’d go after her on my own. I’d chased her for my own selfish reasons. I hadn’t cared about her mental state when she found out who I was.

Most of the time, I’d convinced myself that I would walk away before it got to that stage.

Shit, it had already gone on too long.

I’d tried to end it.

But each time, she revealed a little more of herself, gave a little more, and fucking stole everything of mine in the goddamn process.

And now, I’d get her back—even if it was stupid to go alone.

I’d always done things the hard way.

I left the security guard to welcome the tardy police and stalked into her bedroom to call the brownstone where Elle used to live.

I knew the number by heart, just like I knew what window was hers, what her favorite food was (blueberry pancakes), how many times she’d snuggled with that damn cat (over six hundred since I’d starting watching), and how hard she worked for Belle Elle (every hour of her life), which was what made my guilt so much worse.

Guilt compounded on guilt for every awful thing I’d thought about her over the past three years.

The phone rang.

I paused with my fingertips tracing her pillow, noticing the pristine sheets with no feline ball indenting the mattress. Sage hadn’t attacked me when I arrived, which made me suspect the cat was either with Elle’s father or Greg had taken it when he’d taken Elle.

“Hello?” A groggy voice finally came on the line.

Thank Christ for landlines and the non-ability to silence them at night.

“Mr. Charlston? It’s Penn Everett.”

Joe Charlston cleared his throat. “What do you need at five o’clock in the morning that couldn’t wait for normal hours, son?”

My heart did a weird flip at the endearment. He was nothing like I thought he’d be. I’d despised him almost every day for three years. I’d misjudged him just like I’d misjudged his daughter. “I need all the information you have on Steve Hobson’s son, Greg. Any real estate purchases or favorite locations.”

His voice whipped sharp. “Why? What’s happened?”

I braced myself. “Greg has taken your daughter.”

“What?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, dislodging dried blood and activating bruises. I’d forgotten about my bare feet and bloody face when I’d shoved the security guard into the elevator. I must look fucking awful. “Elle has been taken by the cocksucker Greg Hobson. Her apartment is empty. There are signs of a fight. I need to find her. Immediately.”

Otherwise, who the fuck knows what he’ll do to her.

Joe barked, “Stay there, I’m coming over.”

“No—just tell me—” The phone went dead.

I growled into the empty room.

Goddammit.

More time wasted. More people involved.

I had to leave. I’d call him from the road.

I wouldn’t wait any longer than I had to.

Elle was mine.

I would bring her home on my own.

* * * * *

As planned, my cell-phone rang fifteen minutes later when Elle’s father arrived at his daughter’s apartment only to find me missing. “Where the hell are you?”

“Driving.”

“You should be here helping me look for Elle.”

My fingers tightened on the wheel. “I am helping look for Elle.”

“By what? Driving in circles?”

I didn’t bother telling him that Larry had contacts in the NYPD—that he could help me with phone records and credit card statements. I’d wanted a faster way, hoping Joe could provide, but if he was going to slow me down, then so be it.

He’d get left behind.

“Tell me everything you can about Steve and Greg.”

Joe sniffed. “Greg lives with his father a few blocks over from me. However, he’s not there. I called Steve, and he’s as freaked as I am about all of this. He said Greg never came home last night—but that’s nothing new. He has girlfriends who he stays with periodically.”

I ignored the fact that the slime ball slept around all the while trying to get Elle into bed.

I’d kill him just for that.

“Any other property? Known addresses he’d go to on his own?” My car broke the speed limit as I weaved down Broadway.

“Steve bought a log cabin a few years ago out in Rochester. He said Greg might’ve—”

“The address. Now.”

“It’s off the beaten track. Look for a creek called Bearfoot Rapids. The house is tucked away with a carved lumberjack holding a mailbox at the start of the driveway.”

“No street name or number?”

“No, that’s what made it appealing. It can’t be found easily.”

Fucking brilliant.

Holding back my curse, I gritted, “Thanks. I’ll call you when I’m there.”

I hung up and tossed the phone onto the seat beside me.

Rochester was a good five-hour drive away.

Christ, he could do anything to her in that time, and I’d be too late.

The Mercedes snarled as I stomped on the pedal, forcing gas to feed its greedy engine.

Hold on, Elle.

This time, I wouldn’t let her down.