The warehouse smelled of cold iron and damp concrete. The kind of place that ate sound, where even your own breathing felt too loud. Talia sat rigid in the bolted chair, wrists raw from the ropes that bound them, trying not to shiver. The air wasn’t freezing, but fear had its own kind of chill.
Hours had blurred. She couldn’t tell if it was midnight or dawn. The bare windows showed only darkness, and Zane moved through it like a predator who didn’t need light to hunt. Every time she closed her eyes, he was there. Sometimes silent. Sometimes speaking in that calm, silky voice that made her skin crawl.
“Do you know what I hate about Jaxon’s little empire?” he said at one point, leaning against a pillar, watching her like she was something caged in a zoo. “He treats people like assets. Poli
