16. Henry

16

Henry

F reya didn't eat dinner with me. She didn't even come down the stairs. The silence stretched, tightening around my chest like a vice. Her defiance was a spark, igniting the anger simmering within me.

The room seemed to shrink around me, the walls closing in as my temper flared hotter and hotter. Without another word, I grabbed my own plate, the ceramic cool against my fingertips. In one swift motion, I hurled it across the kitchen. It shattered against the far wall with a satisfying crash, pieces scattering like confetti, food splattering the wall.

"Does she think this is a game?" I snarled. "Some kind of joke?"

My fists clenched at my sides as I struggled to control the raging storm inside me.

Carmen immediately went over and started cleaning. She moved with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times before, picking up the shattered pieces and the mess I had made. My stomach twisted in guilt as I watched her. It wasn’t her fault, none of it was, and yet here she was, dealing with the aftermath of my outburst.

I could almost feel my grandfather’s gaze on me, his disapproval a tangible weight. He had always been composed, always put together. His voice echoed in my mind, stern and unwavering. He would have known how to handle this. He would have controlled his wife without breaking a sweat. A frown tugged at his lips in my memory, a reminder of how far I had fallen short.

Running my fingers through my hair, I let out a heavy sigh. What the hell was I going to do? Freya was turning me into everything I wasn't. The control I prided myself on slipped through my fingers like sand.

The dining room felt suffocating, the air thick with tension and frustration. I needed space, time to figure this out, to regain some semblance of control over my life and my emotions. Without another word, I stood up and left the dining room.

As I walked away, Carmen’s quiet diligence continued behind me. The hallway seemed endless as my footsteps echoed off the polished floors. Each step felt like an escape from the storm brewing inside me.

I stepped into the garage, the chill air wrapping around me like an unwelcome embrace. The scent of oil and rubber lingered, a familiar comfort. My car sat there, sleek and black, a beast waiting to be unleashed. I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather cool against my back. The engine roared to life with a satisfying growl, reverberating through the empty space.

Pulling out of the driveway, I drove through the dark streets, the city lights flickering past in a blur. My grip tightened on the steering wheel as my thoughts churned. Freya’s defiance was a thorn under my skin, each refusal a fresh wound. The anger bubbled just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

The drive to the abandoned barn on 13th Street was muscle memory. I’d been here countless times before when I needed to blow off steam, when the solitude of my gym wasn’t enough. The barn loomed ahead, a shadow against the night sky, its worn structure barely standing but perfect for what I needed.

I parked and killed the engine, stepping out into the silence. The night air bit at my skin as I approached the barn doors. They creaked open under my hand, revealing the dim interior lit only by moonlight filtering through broken slats.

The barn doors creaked shut behind me, the sound swallowed by the low murmur of voices from below. I descended the rickety wooden stairs, each step groaning under my weight. The air grew warmer, tinged with sweat and anticipation.

At the bottom of the stairs, I paused, taking in the scene. The room was dimly lit, a single bulb swinging from the ceiling casting erratic shadows across the makeshift arena. A ring had been hastily assembled in the center, ropes frayed and stained from countless fights. The floor was littered with straw and dirt, kicked up by the restless crowd gathered around.

People pressed in close to the ring, their faces obscured by shadows and hooded sweatshirts. The low murmur of conversation filled the space, punctuated by occasional shouts and laughter. The atmosphere buzzed with unspoken tension, a collective anticipation for the violence to come.

I stepped inside, my presence drawing a few curious glances. A couple of guys gave me odd looks, their eyes lingering on me for a moment longer than comfortable. I ignored them, my focus on the ring and the fight about to start. This was what I needed — a place where control didn’t matter, where I could let loose and not think about Freya or my grandfather’s disappointment.

The crowd shifted as two fighters climbed into the ring, their bodies already glistening with sweat under the harsh light. They squared off, fists raised, eyes locked in determination. The energy in the room crackled like static electricity as they began to circle each other.

I found a spot near the back of the room, leaning against a wooden post. From here, I could see everything without being drawn into unwanted conversations or confrontations. The fight started with a flurry of punches and grunts, each blow landing with a sickening thud.

For a moment, I lost myself in it — in the raw power and aggression on display. It was primal and brutal, an escape from the chaos swirling inside me. Each punch was a release, each grunt an exhalation of pent-up rage.

The noise of the crowd rose to a fever pitch as one fighter—Damien Sinclaire—gained the upper hand, driving his opponent back against the ropes. Blood splattered across his knuckles as he landed blow after blow, relentless in his pursuit of victory.

I watched it all unfold, feeling my own tension ease with every hit exchanged in that ring.

The fight in the ring called to me, a primal urge to be up there, trading blows, feeling the raw power of each hit. I clenched my fists, knuckles white, trying to push down the desire. It wasn't my place tonight. Instead, I headed over to the makeshift bar in the corner.

The bartender barely looked up as he poured a generous shot of whiskey into a grimy glass. The amber liquid caught the light, promising a brief escape. I handed him a crumpled bill and took the glass, nursing it as I leaned against the bar.

The whiskey burned as it went down, a slow warmth spreading through my chest. I focused on the sensation, trying to drown out the chaos in my mind.

A soft laugh drew my attention. She sauntered over, hips swaying with practiced ease. Her hair was jet black, cascading down her shoulders in loose waves. Eyes lined with thick kohl sparkled with mischief as she looked up at me.

"Buy a girl a drink?" Her voice was smooth, teasing.

I took another sip of my whiskey before answering. "Depends. What's your poison?"

"Whiskey," she said with a smirk. "Same as you."

I nodded to the bartender, who poured another glass and slid it over to her. She took it with a nod of thanks and leaned against the bar next to me, her arm brushing against mine.

"Name's Amber," she said, taking a sip from her glass.

"Henry," I replied, keeping my voice steady.

"I know." Her eyes raked over me, appraisingly. "So what brings you here tonight, Henry? You don't look like the regulars."

I shrugged, swirling the whiskey in my glass. "Needed to blow off some steam."

"Trouble at home?" She raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes.

"You could say that," I muttered.

Amber moved closer, her perfume—something floral and intoxicating—filling my senses. "Well," she purred, "if you need help forgetting your troubles for a while..."

Her hand rested on my arm, fingers trailing lightly over my skin. I stared at her for a moment, contemplating. Freya's defiance flashed through my mind again—a thorn that refused to dislodge itself. The idea of using Amber as some twisted form of retribution crossed my mind.

But as I looked into her eyes, something held me back. The anger inside me roared for release but not like this—not through someone who didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire of my rage and frustration.

I took another long drink from my glass instead and met Amber’s gaze with a forced smile.

Loyalty. More than anything, my grandfather taught me loyalty.

Freya may be a thorn in my ass, but I couldn't be disloyal to her. Not even in a moment of weakness.

"Not interested," I said, voice flat.

Amber pouted, batting her eyelashes with a practiced ease. "Rebecca said you'd be open to it."

"Rebecca?" My jaw tightened. Why the hell would Rebecca say something like that? Especially if she was trying to get me for herself.

My fingers tightened around the glass, the whiskey sloshing slightly. Unless there was more to it...

"She said you might be showing up tonight," Amber continued, oblivious to my growing anger. "You know, this place only opens up a couple of times a week. She said you weren't going to be in the best of moods and that you needed the distraction. She said you were good, and you were looking for someone with experience."

My eyes narrowed. I hated how well Rebecca knew me. Hated that she could predict my movements and moods with such accuracy. The thought of her manipulating the situation made my blood boil even more.

"And what did Rebecca get out of this little arrangement?" I asked, my voice low and dangerous.

Amber shrugged, taking another sip of her whiskey. "She didn't say. Just that she thought it would be... beneficial for both of us."

I set my glass down on the bar with a hard clink, standing up straight. "Tell Rebecca that I'm not interested in her games."

Amber's eyes widened slightly at the coldness in my tone, but she nodded, stepping back. "Sure thing."

Something gnawed at me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something felt off. Rebecca knew me, could predict my actions. Why would she send one of her friends her to distract me, especially since she gave me so much shit for not claiming her at the Imprinting ceremony?

Home.

I needed to get home.

Without another word, I turned and headed toward the exit. The dim lights and murmur of the crowd faded behind me as I pushed through the doors into the cold night air.

Loyalty meant something to me, even if Freya didn't realize it yet. Even if Rebecca tried to twist it for her own gain.

As I drove, a gnawing anxiousness clawed at my insides. Rebecca knew I'd come to the fight club. She probably knew Freya and I wouldn't get along from the start. It was almost too convenient.

My heart slammed against my chest, each beat a reminder of the dread building inside me.

Freya.

The realization hit me like a sledgehammer. Rebecca knew I'd leave Freya alone tonight. She knew how to push my buttons, how to play me like a puppet on strings. I'd never bring Freya to the fight club.

Ever.

Rebecca knew that.

And then it clicked— Rebecca and Jensen .

What if they plotted something together to do something to Freya to get to me?

The thought sent a surge of adrenaline through my veins. I floored the gas pedal, the engine roaring in response as I sped up. The streets blurred past in a dizzying rush, my focus narrowing down to one singular goal—get home. Get to Freya.

Every red light felt like an eternity, every slow car in front of me an obstacle I wanted to ram out of the way. The city's usual hum was a distant buzz, drowned out by the pounding in my ears.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white with tension. If they touched her... if they hurt her...

The mansion came into view, its looming structure casting long shadows under the moonlight. I barely managed to park before jumping out of the car and sprinting toward the front door. My breath came in ragged gasps, muscles burning with each step.

I threw open the door and barreled inside, my voice echoing through the empty hallways.

"Freya!"

No response.

Panic clawed at my throat as I raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The west wing loomed ahead, dark and foreboding. I burst through the door to her room, chest heaving with exertion.

Empty.

My heart pounded harder as I scanned the room for any sign of struggle, any clue as to where she might be. The bed was neatly made, her belongings undisturbed.

Think , Henry. Think.

I stood in the middle of Freya’s empty room, my breath ragged. The silence felt oppressive, like the walls were closing in on me. Panic gnawed at my insides, but I forced myself to take a breath, then another. I needed to think clearly.

Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe Rebecca's manipulations had twisted my thoughts so much that I couldn't see straight. Freya could have just gone somewhere in the house. She could be safe, tucked away in some corner, unaware of the chaos raging in my mind.

I closed my eyes and tried to steady myself. Where would Freya go? Did she leave? The thought of her leaving without saying anything felt like a knife twisting in my gut. But she could have, especially after everything that had happened between us.

Still, I couldn't let myself jump to conclusions.

Not yet.

I needed to search the house first, make sure she wasn't somewhere within these walls before spiraling into worst-case scenarios.

The west wing seemed like a logical place to start. It was where I found her before, wandering those old hallways, curious and defiant. Maybe she'd gone back there to escape me, to find some solace away from the tension that had been building between us.

I moved quickly through the mansion, my footsteps echoing in the vastness of the halls. Each step felt like an eternity as I approached the west wing. The memories of our last encounter here flashed through my mind—our argument, the anger and confusion in her eyes.

The door to the west wing creaked open under my hand, revealing the dimly lit corridor beyond. The air felt cooler here, almost untouched by the warmth of the rest of the house. I stepped inside, letting the door close softly behind me.

I moved through the hallways with purpose, checking each room methodically. The shadows seemed to stretch and twist with each turn, playing tricks on my mind. But I pressed on, determined to find her.

Room after room yielded nothing but silence and emptiness. My heart pounded louder with each empty space I encountered.

Finally, as I reached one of the last rooms at the end of the corridor, a faint sound caught my attention—a soft rustle, almost imperceptible against the quiet.

I stepped closer to the door and pushed it open slowly.

And there she was.

But she wasn't alone.