CHAPTER 187: HER JUSTICE, MY VENGEANCE

Adrien’s POV

The warehouse loomed like a quiet accusation—ugly, industrial, and far too still. The air outside was thick with humidity and bloodlust, even though not a single drop had fallen yet.

I stepped out of the car. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes.

Cameron was already waiting by the entrance, hands shoved in his pockets, that familiar sheepish tilt to his stance. Gray stood a few feet away, arms crossed, and eyes sharp beneath the low brim of his cap. A few of our men fanned out, forming a loose perimeter.

All of them were waiting—for me.

"Adrien," Cam started, stepping forward.

I didn’t break stride. Didn’t even glance at him. I walked right past like he didn’t exist.

"Listen, I—"

I cut him off with a flat gesture of my hand. "Save it."

He shut up instantly, but I could feel the weight of his guilt at my back.

A few days ago, I let him convince me. I listened to him talk me into putting my woman in harm’s way. Letting Clara spiral. Giving her rope to hang herself.

And she almost hung Isabella instead.

I turned to Gray.

"Is everything I asked for ready?"

Gray nodded once. "Yes, boss. Two trucks. Empty lot secured five miles east. No signals out, no eyes in. Ropes, restraints, and the same liquid they used on her—it’s all there. Iron bars in the second truck, coals too. We triple-checked everything."

"And the knives?"

"In the case," he said. "Sterilized. You’ll find them sharp enough to match the rage."

Cameron finally spoke again, quieter now. "Adrien... I know you’re pissed at me. And you should be. But—"

"Pissed?" I turned, cold fury tightening every syllable. "You told me to make her bait. And now you want to talk?"

"You said she needed space to expose herself," I murmured. The words were knives dipped in calm. "You told me to let Clara feel safe. That she’d slip. That we’d catch her red-handed."

"She did slip," Cam said quickly. "And we caught her. The plan worked."

"You said the worst-case scenario was a kidnapping attempt. You didn’t say she’d be drugged. Half-naked. Tied up. That they’d be seconds away from raping her when I got there." My voice never rose. It didn’t need to. "You remember that?"

Cameron looked down, jaw tight.

"She could’ve died, Cam."

Silence.

Then he sighed. "I didn’t know it’d go that far. I thought—we thought—we’d have enough time."

I gave him a slow, sarcastic thumbs up.

Cam tried again, softer this time. "I made a bad call, okay? I fucked up. And if you want to beat my ass for it, fine. I deserve it. But I never meant for her to—" He paused, swallowing hard. "I never thought she’d actually be touched. Not like that."

"Spare me the dramatics," I muttered.

Still, he didn’t shut up. "Look, man, I’m not just your second-in-command. I’m your cousin. If I thought for one second Clara would get that far, I would’ve ended it myself. You know that."

I stayed silent.

He groaned. "Come on, just say you’ll kill me later or something. But stop ignoring me, you icy bastard. You’re making me feel like I kicked a puppy."

I finally turned to him—slow and deadly calm.

"You make one more speech, I’ll let Gray slit your throat and say it was an accident."

He smirked. "There’s the Adrien I know."

"Shut up before I change my mind."

Cameron lifted both hands. "Noted."

"Now stop whining."

"Is that forgiveness?" he grinned.

"It’s exhaustion. You’re lucky I’m tired of hearing your voice."

Cam gave a sheepish salute.

With a sharp jerk of my chin, I gave Gray the signal.

The massive, corrugated metal door of the warehouse groaned upwards, its screech echoing in the unnerving quiet.

I pushed past cam, as Gray pulled it open. The interior of the warehouse was a cavern of shadows, the only light filtering in through grimy skylights and a few strategically placed industrial lamps that cast long, distorted figures across the concrete floor. The air inside was cool, odorless, and yet it felt heavy, vibrating with an unspoken promise of violence.

In the center of the vast concrete floor, two men were tied to metal poles, back-to-back. They were battered, their faces swollen and bruised from the initial capture, but not broken. Not yet. One of them, spat a bloody wad onto the floor as we entered. The other, with a black hair, just stared, his eyes wide with a terror that was rapidly curdling into desperation.

These were the hands that had touched her. The mouths that had whispered filth in her ear.

The sight of them, of their casual disregard for a life, for her life, ignited a cold, hard flame in my chest. It wasn’t a roaring inferno, not a wild, uncontrolled blaze. It was a precise, surgical burn, targeting every nerve, every fiber of my being, channeling it into one singular, unwavering purpose.

"Bring them to the center," I commanded, my voice flat, echoing slightly in the vast space.

Two of our men moved immediately, untying the first man. He struggled, a pathetic, desperate wriggle that only tightened the ropes. They dragged him forward, past a tarp-covered shape that hinted at the equipment Gray had meticulously gathered.

The first man, the one who’d spat, was hauled roughly forward and placed on a chair, his wrists and ankles quickly secured with thick leather straps. He grunted, a guttural sound of discomfort and defiance, struggling against the restraints.

The second followed, eyes darting around the warehouse, searching for an escape that wasn’t there. He was paler, shaking subtly, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. He didn’t fight as much, less defiance, more raw, animalistic fear. He too was secured to a chair, facing the first man, the space between them pregnant with dread.

I walked towards them, my footsteps deliberate, echoing in the quiet.

"Did you enjoy yourselves?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the silence like a scalpel.

The first man, the one with the bruised jaw and a missing tooth from some earlier ’persuasion,’ scoffed. "Enjoy what, boss? We were just doing a job." He tried to sound tough, but his eyes darted around, betraying his fear.

The second man, the one with black hair and eyes still wide with terror, just mumbled, "We didn’t... we didn’t do anything, mister. We swear."

"I don’t think you understand the gravity of your situation," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "You touched a woman. You traumatized a human. You hurt a person. And now, you’re going to pay for it. With every ounce of pain and suffering you can possibly endure."

Gray stepped forward, placing a sleek metal case on a nearby packing crate. With a soft click, he opened it. Lined up on black velvet, the knives glinted under the weak light. They looked less like weapons and more like surgical instruments. Instruments for deconstruction.

I picked up a thin, razor-sharp blade, feeling its perfect weight in my hand.

I admired the edge for a moment, tilting it so a sliver of light caught the steel. It was a beautiful, terrible thing. I walked toward the first man, the defiant one. His bravado was already cracking, the edges flaking away to reveal the soft terror underneath. I didn’t rush. I let the silence stretch, let the sight of me, calm and holding the blade, do the work.

I stopped in front of him, so close our knees were almost touching. I raised the knife, not to his throat, but to his face. He flinched, pulling his head back as far as the chair would allow.

"Her name is Isabella. Say it."

He just laughed, a raw, ugly sound. "Go to hell."

"I’ve been there," I murmured, my eyes locking onto his. "It’s where I learned to do this."

In a movement too fast for him to track, I shot my hand out, not with the knife, but grabbing him by the hair and slamming his head against the arm rest of the chair. His eyes widened in shock. Before he could recover, I pressed the flat of the cold blade against his cheek.

"Her name," I repeated, the steel a promise against his skin.

He trembled, the bravado finally cracking. "Isabella," he choked out.

"Good." I smiled, a chilling, humorless expression. "Now you’re going to apologize to Isabella──as it will be recorded and played back to her later. She deserves to hear your regret."

I watched his face, searching for a flicker of understanding, a hint of genuine remorse, but found only fear and resentment. Not enough.

Without another word, I angled the blade. He didn’t have time to flinch, only to gasp as I made a shallow incision just beneath his left eye, following the curve of his cheekbone. The cut wasn’t deep, not yet. But it was precise, an agonizing caress of steel against protesting flesh. A thin line of blood welled up, bright crimson against his pale skin, tracing a path towards his jaw.

He screamed, a raw, piercing sound that ricocheted off the concrete walls. "What the fu—!"

"Language," I murmured, my grip on the knife steady. "You will soon be on camera. Isabella might hear you."

His scream cut off as his throat closed, replaced by a pathetic sob.

Two of our men moved in—one of them a woman.