His Identity

57

|Aveline's POV|

"We should call Rhys," I breathe out, my pulse quickening as we stand in front of the weird, suspicious warehouse.

Ryver scoffs, sparing me a side glance. "And why should we do that?"

"We are three people," I point out the obvious. "I'd feel better if we were four."

"Three is my lucky number." Ryver says with a shrug.

"Four is mine," I retort.

"Mine's two and I'll happily exclude myself," Zale comments, zero hint of amusement in his tone. I look at him, about to snap at him for being so ridiculous to even suggest leaving us alone to deal with whatever's inside only to not say a word when I notice the look on his face and realize he's kidding. "This is a suicide mission."

"Oh Lord save me," Ryver throws his head back and groans dramatically. Zale and I exchange a look, confused as he continues, "you two are insane."

"I used to think the same, but then I met y—" Zale's smart comeback is rudely interrupted by Ryver. "Shut it," he rolls his eyes then focuses his stare on us, suddenly looking dead serious. "There's nothing suicidal here, okay? All we know is that Nick's possibly inside. That's the location his phone is, no? Exactly."

Possibly. Maybe I did it wrong. Maybe we're at the wrong place. Maybe he's fine somewhere. Maybe he's. . . not here.

Please don't be here.

"We don't know what's inside," Zale reads my thought, looking as unsure as he sounds. I can't blame him. Nick's involved in dangerous shit, we all know that by now and have weirdly come to terms with it.

"Nick is inside," Ryver sighs. "Come on, guys." Suddenly, the sound of his phone ringing fills our ears. He lets out a string of curses as he quickly whips it out of his pocket and puts on silent. "Sor—" he cut himself off as his eyes fall on something or rather someone behind us. "Shit," he mutters as he quickly ushers us away from the view of whoever he saw, making us hide behind a bunch of containers.

Oh fuck, this was a bad idea. Thank god I have my gun with me. Ryver gave Zale one as well— I don't know where he got a gun or how many he has or why he has them and honestly, I'm not sure I wanna know— and kept one (or maybe more) for himself.

The air is thick with the smell of rust and salt as we crouch behind a stack of grimy, weather-worn containers, huddled close. I'm not sure I'm breathing anymore, my eyes locked on a man pacing in front of the warehouse.

He's tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit crumpled and stained as if he's been wearing it for days. His face is etched with frustration and exhaustion, the creases in his brow deepening with every word being barked into the phone he's clutching tightly in his hand. His eyes keep darting around in front of him as if he's looking for someone— us. He must've heard Ryver's phone.

"He's definitely having a bad day," Ryver whispers, his voice barely audible.

The man's voice carries in the stillness, rough and low and I'm able to grasp what he says. "He's fucking insufferable. He's just like his god damn parents. A brat, that's what he is. I got him in chains, points a knife and whatnot and he fucking fucks with me even then, that little shit! He's not scared, no." He begins shaking his head as he talks to whoever is on the other side, his eyes unfocused as he gives up looking already. "He fucking isn't and it's frustrating." After a moment of silence, the man speaks again. "I'm not going to kill him, I can't. I don't know what to do with him yet."