Annelly

My hand clamps over my mouth. A sound—half gasp, half cry—catches in my throat, refusing to come out. I press my forehead to the cold windowpane, breath fogging the glass, as the man I love breaks apart in a way I’ve never seen. In a way I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forget.

The guilt hits first—sharp and blinding.

Then the helplessness, settling heavy in my bones until my knees shake under the weight.

And then something deeper takes over. A grief so raw it scalds. Because as I watch him collapse beneath a wound he’s carried his entire life—a wound that’s now ripped open and bleeding because of me—I feel every ounce of his pain like it’s my own.

I should go to him.

I should push past Zeb, run down those steps, drop into the dirt beside him. Beg him to look at me, to forgive me. Or at the very least, hold him until the world stops spinning.

But my feet don’t move.

Because I can’t breathe.

Because in a moment that matters, in a moment where he needs me most, I’m suddenly terrified to face the wreckage I caused.

A warm, solid presence appears beside me, as though he knew the exact second I started to spiral.

Zeb.

He doesn’t touch me. He just stands there, watching out the window with me, a quiet, steadying anchor in a storm that feels strong enough to rip James and me apart.

“Annelly.” His voice is gentle, careful in that way men get when they don’t know what to do with a woman who’s crying. “We should give him a minute. I know it’s not easy. But he needs this. The best thing we can do for him right now is go back to that table and figure out how to help them both. Finding Tyler. Making sure he’s okay. That’s how we help James.”

The words land like a lifeline tossed into raging water, and I grab on with the desperation of someone drowning.

I swallow hard and nod. Then I force myself to turn away from the window, wiping at tears that won’t stop coming. Walking away feels like tearing something vital out of my chest. Like some part of me refuses to be separated from the broken, grieving man outside.

Zeb stays beside me. His presence is a quiet kind of strength, making it possible to keep moving. He doesn’t steer me or guide me with a hand on my back, something I’m strangely grateful for. He simply walks with me, matching my pace, offering steady, silent support.

When we reach the table, I notice Dominick at the weapons cabinet, sliding James’s gun back inside. He closes it with a soft click and locks it. No theatrics. No commentary. Just a simple, deliberate action that says everything.

This is how we protect James.

This is how we move forward.

Dominick returns to his seat, jaw tight, eyes flicking once toward the window as if checking James is still there. Only then does he settle, shoulders squaring with a different kind of tension, one that says he’s ready to work.

The computer screen glows at the center of the table. Ben, Lucas, and Owen are still there, waiting. Grim-faced. Focused. Present.

When he sees us all seated again, Lucas gives a small nod, steadying the entire team from a thousand miles away. 

Owen’s fingers never stop moving across the keyboard, but his gaze lifts briefly—just long enough to check that I’m still upright, still breathing—before dropping back to the screens. The stress is etched so deeply into his brow it looks carved there.

Ben sits up straighter, clearing his throat as he clasps his hands on the table in front of him.

And then something unexpected happens. 

The guys… they don’t look through me. They don’t treat me like some fragile victim sitting on the sidelines. Instead, they look to me. 

Like I’m part of the team.

Like my presence here matters.

Like I’m a part of whatever decisions come next.

And God… it helps.

“Annelly.” Ben’s tone is firm, controlled in a way that pulls my scattered focus into a single, sharp point. “You’ve spent more time with Victor than any of us. You know how he thinks, how he operates, how he moves. What you know—what you’re able to tell us—may be the key to bringing Tyler home.”

My pulse jumps, my breath hitching around a sob.

Zeb shifts slightly beside me, a quiet orbit of comfort. “We’re here for you too, Annelly. All of us,” he murmurs. “We’ll start slow—one question at a time, only as long as you’re comfortable.” 

His reassurance steadies something inside me.

I nod, swipe another tear away, and force myself to meet the eyes staring back at me through the screen.

Lucas leans forward a fraction. Calm. Controlled. Measured in a way that feels almost surgical. “Before we start, let’s go through what we do know. Separate the noise. Anchor to facts.”

Facts.

That, I can do.

Facts mean certainty. Facts give shape to fear. And right now, I need anything that makes the fear feel containable.

As they relay the events of the last twenty-four hours, I listen closely. Together they retrace Tyler’s steps—from yesterday morning to the moment he left the building, through everything that’s happened since. Then they dissect Victor’s email. Owen rattles off technical details that soar over my head but clearly make sense to the others.

Then it’s my turn.

I pull in a shaky breath and begin answering their questions. I speak about Victor’s patterns. His behaviors. The things he hides, and the things he can’t help revealing. I speak about our time together—our experiences, the people in his orbit.

Throughout it, Owen’s fingers blur across the keyboard, the glow of multiple monitors reflected in his glasses. He doesn’t speak much at first, but when he finally does, his voice is tight and edged with a fury held barely in check.

“About that email—we should respond,” he mutters. “Call him out on his riddle bullshit. Or better yet, let me set a trap. Trick that loser into coming to us so we can torture his ass and then put him down like the vermin he is.”

“Owen,” Lucas warns gently. “You know we can’t.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Owen grumbles, still typing. “Just saying what we’re all thinking. The asshole deserves it. Hell, he deserves worse.”

Zeb shoots him a look—half warning, half agreement—before flicking a quick glance my way, gauging whether the words land too close. But I’m too numb for any of it to register.

“Should we respond…” Ben tilts his head, considering it. “I say we wait. Let me reach out to our FBI contacts first. See if Hunt can provide resources to help.”

“In the meantime,” Lucas says, shifting the room from analysis to action. “Owen, can you pull nearby traffic cams? Start from the moment he left the building and expand outward. See if we can track which direction he went.”

“Already on it.” Owen doesn’t even look up. His fingers blur faster. “I’ve got transit feeds, bus routes, subway platforms, street-level security. But whoever grabbed him knew how to avoid the cameras. I lose him right where we found his phone.”

A thick silence settles—heavy, frustrated—but Lucas only nods, absorbing and recalibrating.

Dominick leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “We should also look into that girl. I think she was his ex. Heard James mention her recently when they were on the phone. Anyone know her name?”

“A girlfriend? I don’t think—” Zeb begins, brow furrowing.

“Marissa Torres,” I say before I can stop myself.

Every man in the room—on-screen and off—goes still.

Ben’s eyebrows lift. “There’s a girl?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out steadier than expected. “She’s a clinical psychology major at the Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine. Tyler told me about her. About their relationship. How it ended. He was hoping he could fix things while he was working in Philadelphia.”

Their reactions are subtle but impossible to miss.

A flicker of guilt shadows Zeb’s face.

A hard set tightens Ben’s jaw.

Dominick goes silent.

Even Owen stops mid-keystroke.

They didn’t know. These men who love James and Tyler like brothers—but somehow missed this.

Zeb clears his throat softly, his gaze meeting mine with a mix of regret and gratitude. “Thank you, Nell.” He looks at the screen. “Owen, that enough for you to find her?”

Owen’s fingers resume their rapid clicking. “Yep. More than enough.”

The room settles into a tense, focused quiet—the kind that comes when people in a room are processing something heavy.

Ben exhales slowly, leaning back with the weight of a man juggling ten things at once. “That’s enough for now. Let’s reconvene in an hour. In the meantime, I’ll reach out to our FBI contacts—see what Agent Hunt can do for us. Owen, keep digging. Lucas, coordinate with Philly PD and get whatever they’ve got; have them liaise with you directly going forward. Dom, Zeb—keep eyes on the perimeter. Stay with Annelly. And get the tracer equipment ready. If a ransom call comes in, I want us ready to move.”

Everyone nods.

“Should we consider relocating her back to Ruby Creek?” Dominick asks—and my whole body tenses. “Maybe to Lucas’s place since it’s the most secure?”

The suggestion hits me like a blow.

 Leaving James, especially after everything that’s happened, feels impossible. Wrong in every way.

And dragging Victor’s brand of danger to my cousin’s doorstep? To her kids? After everything they’ve already survived?

No. I won’t do that.

“I’m just not a fan of how spread thin we are,” Dominick continues, oblivious to the sharp hitch in my breath as anxiety spikes hard in my chest. “Covering Ben’s place, Lucas’s place, HQ, the safe house… we can’t operate efficiently like this.”

I’m already shaking my head—panicked, desperate—but before anyone notices, before Ben or any of the others can respond, a voice booms from behind me.

Commanding.

Raw, yet unwavering.

A tone that allows no room for misinterpretation.

“Absolutely not. She is not going back there.”

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