Chapter 7 Rot Beneath the Surface

Emília Gray

Hatred was a condemnation.

In the first seconds, it was violent. In the next, it aged bitterly, poisoning every ounce of the heart. It sentenced the souls that surrendered to resentment. It was cruel, painful, and vindictive.

Hatred had never been the opposite of love. Because I felt both. I was capable of loving and hating in equal measure. I was capable of destroying him and mourning his death with the same intensity.

Love was a vast universe. It gave. It embraced. It kissed. It swore. But it also clawed. It hurt. It brought tears. It stole smiles.

Hatred could do the same—but with a reason. With a purpose. At least, that was a rational explanation for anyone who felt deceived. Betrayed. Stepped on.

Love was poison, and hatred was the catalyst.

That was why it was foolish of me to say I hated him.

What I felt was something greater.

Disgust.

I looked at him and felt revulsion take over my gut.

If Dante could see my heart, he would find it dead, necrotic from the pain he had left behind four years ago when he ran away and destroyed my life.

"Aren’t you going to say anything, Gray?"

I spat on him.

The spit hit his handsome face, completely altered by the years that had passed.

Dante’s reaction was minimal. Any trace of amusement in seeing me tied to that chair in the middle of a filthy place—probably somewhere they buried the dead—was gone.

He wiped himself with his arm and stared at me with his dark eyes.

"I’ll take that as an I missed you."

I wanted to beat him. I wanted to crush his skull with my hands.

But I had decided I wouldn’t give him anything. He wouldn’t hear my voice. He wouldn’t hear how much seeing him hurt me. How much I regretted ever giving my heart to a bastard.

Dante deserved nothing from me. I wouldn’t make the same naive mistake I had seven years ago when I reached out to him.

"I’ve been told you’re not enjoying your participation in our search for the map," Dante said bluntly, still crouched. "But this isn’t about what you want—it’s about what I need. So let’s get to the point. Where did your worthless parents leave the map?"

He had to be joking.

Faulkner was practically begging me to wrap my fingers around his throat and choke him until nothing was left but rolled-back eyes and a slack jaw.

I kept staring at him as if I could kill with my gaze, and he sighed.

"Emília, my patience has an expiration date, and you don’t want to see me as an impatient man."

His calmness was threatening.

He was different. Despite his black hair still making him infernally beautiful, his dark orbs hiding countless secrets, he had changed. Matured.

Dante had grown into his muscles, and I could see from his bare torso how his skin was marked by ugly scars and toned arms. There was a crown of thorns along the V-line that disappeared beneath his pants. The chain resting on his neck toyed with the coldness that lived in that man.

The word tattooed on his chest, as if giving life to his internal wounds.

INCIPIT.

I felt even more disgusted because of it.

I had never imagined hell could look like such a beautiful human being.

"Speak, Gray. You’d better open that little mouth if you don’t want me to do it for you. I guarantee you won’t like it," he threatened again.

The wrinkle of my nose was my only response.

Dante clicked his tongue and gestured behind him. The door slammed shut abruptly, echoing like thunder.

As I turned my head to see what was behind me, I was startled when the cuffs were removed from my wrists.

Faulkner stood up, rising to his full height. He had grown a few centimeters too. I was tall, but everything about me seemed to shrink, making me feel small while I remained glued to that wooden chair.

I lifted my head to scrutinize him with all his dominance.

Once, Dante had been my comfort.

Now, he was my nightmare in the flesh.

Before I could breathe, my neck was seized by his hand. His strength threw my body against the old wall, and a sharp pain spread through my ribs.

"You’ve always been a stubborn little brat, damn it," he muttered, his fingers still marking my throat.

"Don’t. Touch. Me."

My teeth ground out three words that sparked amusement on his face.

"So the bitch barks."

"Let go of me, asshole," I shot back, grabbing his arm and digging my nails in.

"So you curse now," he commented, his grip loosening slightly but not leaving my neck.

"I do worse things to you."

And I spat on him again.

Dante didn’t blink, and amusement flickered in his eyes.

"Save your heat for someone else, bitch."

"You have no idea."

Disgust flashed in his eyes. His lips tightened, his jaw locking.

He didn’t like my answer at all—and I took advantage of it, shoving him and kicking him away.

Dante staggered slightly, giving me space to move.

But as soon as I ran to the door and opened it, four figures rose before me, darkening my vision with their shadows and the ominous power they carried.

My body began to collapse—especially when I finally recognized their faces.

They were no longer just voices.

It was them.

Asher Hawthorn. Jaxon Fish. Vance Campbell. Cole Van Doren.

All of them cloaked in black. Carrying an aura of death no ordinary human could possess.

I had believed Dante had betrayed them. That they were just as outraged as I was. His escape should have affected all of us—nothing could have healed the wound he left behind.

I was completely wrong.

I saw each of them at the university, living normal lives like me, assuming they had returned to normalcy.

It had all been a performance.

And even if tickets had never been sold, I had watched and believed in that mediocre act for the past four years.

They lived in the shadows with Dante. They were still his enforcers. Still honoring the pact they had made. They still had the same love for destruction they had gained that day of the kidnapping.

They still killed. Tortured. Destroyed lives—just as they had made sure to carve into mine.

I had protected them.

And now it was turning against me.

"Seems like it’s getting hot in here. Are we interrupting?" Asher asked, as if everything in his life were a joke.

He was the quarterback of the Olympus University football team—my university. We walked the same halls. We had seen each other at parties. That rich bastard, son of the city’s biggest moguls, was just as rotten.

I felt pathetic for believing he had simply become a womanizing jerk. The truth was, his roots had always been watered with blood.

"She’s going to run," Cole observed.

"No, she won’t," Dante said. "Right, Emília?"

All five of them stared at me.

My limbs trembled, my heart hammering against my ribs. I forced myself to stay calm. I wouldn’t show that the energy surging through my body was pure survival.

Because if I needed to survive, it meant there was danger.

And that danger was them.

"Faceless Ones, huh? That’s what you call yourselves? Isn’t that a bit ridiculous? You used to just be the kidnapping boys. I liked that better," I mocked, stepping back.

"Faceless Ones, gods of death… People are very creative," Asher laughed, Jaxon joining in. They still shared the same brain cells.

"You don’t scare anyone. If anything, you’ve created a fanbase of women who’d love to have their panties soaked because of you."

"And even with soaked panties, they don’t give us the information we want. I don’t know what we’re doing wrong," Cole replied dryly.

"We need to improve our hospitality," Jaxon joked.

"Maybe a more comfortable bed. I’ve suggested it before, but no one listens. Our victims should go to hell in peace," Asher added.

"Your ideas are worthless," Cole shot back.

"Come on, man. I was the one who came up with the cloaks. We agreed I was the genius of the team. Or do you still prefer Vance?"

Immediately, I searched for Vance.

His existence had become almost a legend to me. He remained discreet. Silent. Dangerous.

He was the only one not amused by my presence.

And the only one who wouldn’t hesitate to drain the blood from my body.

A knife danced between his fingers as he sat, mapping me, searching for fear.

And God—no matter how hard I tried to suppress it—fear always took over my lungs when it came to him.

His eyes locked onto mine.

And I froze.

Even as a child, he had sent chills down my spine.

Now it was worse.

It felt like brushing against a glacier—every hair on my body freezing and cracking from the cold he radiated.

"So, Emília… shall we sit and talk?"

Dante’s voice echoed.

He moved closer, but I reacted quickly, grabbing the wooden chair and throwing it at him.

Surprisingly, Dante deflected it with his arm. The impact was loud—I could hear bone striking wood. He was hurt. The scar on his skin was fresh, bleeding.

But he didn’t care.

It was nothing more than an itch to the reckless structure he wore.

"Don’t even think about touching me!" I snapped.

"Or what?" His tone was far more vicious now. "I don’t remember your body being off-limits to me. I can remind you what you promised me—and how much you liked the idea of it becoming real."

My mouth turned bitter.

"You’re sick. Completely insane."

"Don’t underestimate me. I prefer creative."

"Disgusting," I spat.

"I always said that mouth of yours was a problem. Fuck, Emília. Wouldn’t it be easier to give us what we want? We’re not going to leave you alone."

My expression hardened.

"What you’re trying to take from me, I don’t have. But if I did, you’d have to take it from my corpse. Nothing that’s mine will ever be yours. Nothing."

"You’re very mistaken. Everything in front of me belongs to me." His eyes devoured me. "Everything here is mine. I’m just asking for it back—and for now, all I need is a map. And you have no idea how far I go to get what I want."

"I’ll be yours when I’m dead."

"Then let’s take care of that."

I shuddered as he reached for my arm.

I kicked him between the legs and ran at the first opening.

I was ready to fight all four of them—but they didn’t move.

They just watched me run.

My panic intensified.

Why had they let me go?

Had they realized I didn’t have what they wanted?

I didn’t have time to think.

I ran as fast as I could, searching for an exit.

But the place felt like a labyrinth.

Every turn led me back to the same place.

There were no doors. No windows.

Maybe even the oxygen was an illusion—because my lungs were no longer functioning properly.

Exhaustion was destroying me. My bones felt fragile, like they might break at any moment.

I tried to breathe. Tried to keep going.

But my consciousness grew heavy.

My eyelids trembled, closing every cursed second.

What was happening?

I stumbled.

Then again.

I was weaker than I should have been.

"Lost, Gray?"

Dante appeared in front of me again, his bare chest exposed, hands tucked into his dark pants.

His posture was imposing.

There was power in every movement. Every breath. Every syllable. Every damn thought ruling that mind.

"Did you poison me?" I asked, feeling my body slip out of my control.

He didn’t answer.

My legs gave out, and I was thrown back by the force of the drug hitting hard.

I didn’t know when or how I had been dosed—but I should have known they were experts at bringing their victims to their knees.

Dante caught me before I hit the ground.

I tried to move. Tried to hit him.

But I could barely think.

Faulkner lifted me, my body cradled in his arms as he walked.

"I promise I won’t hurt you. Not much."

My spine trembled at the threat.

"I’m going to kill you…" I whispered, already drowning in sleep.

"I’m already dead. But try, pulchra. I’ll enjoy watching you try."