Chapter 22
Author's POV
The liquor in Val's crystal glass swirled like a storm cloud, catching the faint light of the single overhead lamp. The room was silent—so silent that every breath seemed to echo off the steel walls. His men waited, motionless, a dozen shadows holding their breath.
For thirty long minutes Val said nothing, only twirled the glass and studied the grey-tinged liquor as if it might whisper the universe's secrets. Then, at last, his deep voice cut through the stillness.
"They said that?"
The thug kneeling on the concrete flinched. Val's mouth curved into a smirk, the kind that never reached his eyes. Lazily, he tilted his head to get a better look at the man whose face he would never bother to remember.
"Got any last wishes?" he asked, sipping the liquor as though it were water, his gaze dropping briefly to his phone.
The thug's lips trembled. "I—"
"It's late," Val interrupted, a single word that was both command and verdict.
At the sound, Callus and two other men moved like a single organism. They slammed the thug to the ground. A penknife flashed.
"Boss likes a slow death," Callus murmured to the doomed man, his tone almost conversational. "Hope you enjoy it, too."
The scream that followed sliced through the air, raw and jagged. Flesh tore. Blood slicked the floor. The wail rose and fell like a macabre symphony, and Val tilted his head slightly, listening. To him it was music, a rhythm his heart had long ago learned to keep time with.
When the sound finally died away, a frown creased his brow—as though the silence itself disappointed him.
Without a word, Val stood and stepped over the lifeless body, his polished shoes leaving faint red prints. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed his face; only irritation when a splash of blood marred the shine of his footwear.
"Boss, about his warehouse?" Callus asked, voice low, seeking orders.
"Burn."
The single command rolled like distant thunder.
"What about the information he revealed?"
Val gave him a slow, lazy glance, then turned away, offering nothing more. Words were wasted breath.
Callus swallowed hard, waiting until Val's tall figure disappeared down the corridor before exhaling. He wiped a trembling hand across his brow, then reached for his phone. "Assistant Secretary Henry," he muttered, "I'll send the evidence and everything we extracted."
A faint hum of acknowledgment came through the line—then the night exploded with gunfire.
Callus spun, heart lurching. Outside, shadows moved—dozens of them, armed and hungry for revenge.
Val was already there, surrounded. Bullets ripped through the air. He didn't flinch.
Callus watched, frozen, as Val plucked each slug from his flesh with calm precision, his hands disappearing into torn fabric and emerging with gleaming bits of metal. Not a wince. Not a hiss of pain. Just that same cold, unshaken stare.
This was the true Val—the heartless Enigma whispered about in underground circles, the man some called a god of the underworld.
When the last bullet clinked onto the asphalt, Val finally looked up. His voice was a quiet rumble. "I don't like metal in my flesh."
Before anyone could blink, he blurred into motion. One moment he was standing still; the next, he appeared behind the enemy commander at the far edge of the mob. A single sweep of a jagged shard—salvaged from a fallen gun—and blood fountained from the man's neck.
Gasps broke through the night. The remaining thugs faltered, panic in their eyes.
Val's dead-cold gaze slid to Callus, who stood paralyzed. That single look jolted him like an electric current.
"Move!" Callus barked, finally snapping out of it. His men surged forward, gunfire and the clash of blades filling the air.
Val leaned against the warehouse door, unbothered. He watched the carnage unfold as if observing a rehearsal he'd seen a hundred times. The music of battle—the wails, the frantic scuffle—played to his private rhythm.
Then his phone vibrated.
Caller ID: Wife.
He lifted a hand. Instantly, the fighting ceased. Allies and enemies alike froze, confusion flickering as the battlefield fell eerily silent.
He answered.
"I… I got kidnapped."
Her voice—Hazel's voice—broke through the chaos, trembling, thin with fear.
For the first time in years, Val's pulse skipped. His chest tightened, a strange heat rushing beneath his skin. Was this fear? Concern? The alien sensation irritated him, but he couldn't deny the pounding in his veins.
"Leave your location on," he said, his tone low but immediate.
No hesitation. He cut the call and strode away, the cacophony of resumed gunfire fading behind him. His men could finish the cleanup.
Minutes later he was behind the wheel, driving like a storm unleashed, headlights slicing through the night as he followed the blinking dot of her GPS.
The coordinates led him to an empty stretch of road where moonlight pooled like cold silver. He slowed, scanning the darkness.
Then he saw her.
Hazel stood amid a small army of fallen men. Her dress was ripped at the hem for freedom of movement; sweat streaked her temples. In one hand she held a broken heel like a dagger, its point stained dark. A cigarette smoldered between her lips.
With a fierce elegance, she smashed the heel into the skull of the last conscious attacker, the crack echoing through the quiet night. The man crumpled.
Val lowered his window, watching with an emotion he rarely allowed himself: satisfaction.
His gaze flicked to the spare gun on the seat beside him. For a fleeting second, he considered handing it to her as a gift—an unspoken acknowledgment of her ruthless grace.
Hazel inhaled one last drag, then exhaled smoke into the cool air. Her sharp eyes swept the area, checking the time, before they landed on his car.
When recognition sparked, she ground the cigarette beneath her heel, slipped the shoe back on, and strode toward him with unhurried confidence.
"Sorry to disturb," she said lightly, sinking into the passenger seat. "I totally forgot I was an Alpha."
Val's eyes traveled to the unconscious men scattered across the ground, their groans soft and broken.
Hazel caught the subtle flicker in his gaze. Was that admiration? She tilted her chin, pride gleaming in her eyes. Few knew she'd been a man in another life, trained in simple but effective defense.
She smirked.
Across from her, Val's expression returned to its usual icy mask.
He might be fun to tease, she thought, unaware that the rest of the world saw him as a demon—and here she was, daring to play with fire.