The drive to the warehouse was a study in controlled fury. The sleek, powerful car was not a vehicle but a projectile, hurtling through the city's veins, guided by the cold, singular purpose of its driver. The soft, lingering scent of Vanilla Strawberry in the car was a cruel mockery now, a reminder of what had been almost stolen from her. The memory of Althea's kiss on her cheek, the playful "slay those papers," felt like a lifetime ago. That woman lived in the light. The woman driving this car was a creature of the shadows, and the shadows had tried to take her light.
Someone touched what is mine.
The thought was a drumbeat in her skull, primal and absolute. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The marks on her neck, once a source of proud possession, now felt like a target. A declaration that had been challenged.
The warehouse was in the city's industrial underbelly, a place of rust and forgotten things. It was a Blackwood asset. Her mother's Hartwell name provided legitimacy and corporate power, but it was her late Omega father's Blackwood blood that provided the teeth. The family her mother's side called 'unsavory.' The family Haven found brutally efficient.
The heavy corrugated metal door rolled open, and she drove into the cavernous, dimly lit space. Men and women with sharp eyes and silent footsteps moved in the periphery. They didn't bow or simper; they gave curt nods of respect. They were her father's legacy. Her pack.
"Mrs. Hartwell," a tall, severe woman named Chen greeted her. She was the operational head of this division, her loyalty as unquestionable as her ruthlessness. "The asset is secured in the back. He's one of the drivers from the chase sequence prior to the crash. He's not talking. Standard incentives have failed."
Haven's eyes, flat and cold, scanned the space until they landed on a guard's hip. Without a word, she walked over, her hand outstretched. The guard, understanding immediately, unholstered his modified pistol and placed it in her palm. The weight of the cold, silenced steel was a comfort.
"Then I'll provide a new incentive," Haven said, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space.
She walked towards a reinforced metal door, Chen falling into step behind her. The room was bare, save for a single metal chair bolted to the floor. In it sat a man, his hands bound behind him, a black hood over his head. The air smelled of sweat and fear.
Haven nodded to a guard by the door, who ripped the hood off.
The man blinked, squinting in the harsh light. His eyes were wide with terror, darting around before landing on Haven. She stood before him, a vision of corporate power twisted into something monstrous, the emerald of her pantsuit looking black in the gloom.
"So," Haven began, her voice deceptively soft. "You were involved in my wife's accident."
The man's jaw tightened. He tried to muster defiance. "I won't tell you anything."
Haven didn't move. She simply raised the pistol, not aiming it at him, but resting the cold, silenced barrel against his temple. She let him feel the promise of it. She leaned in close, her Grape Old Wine scent, usually a marker of sophistication, now smelling of a predatory decay.
"You will," she whispered, the sound intimate and terrifying. "Everyone talks eventually. The only variable is the amount of… debris… I have to sift through to get to the truth." She trailed the barrel down the side of his face, over his jugular, and rested it against his pounding heart. "I can make the process quick. Or I can make it an art project. Your choice."
The man was trembling, sweat pouring down his face. But he remained silent.
Haven straightened up, her expression one of bored disappointment. She turned her head slightly towards the door, raising her voice to a conversational tone that was somehow more frightening than her whisper.
"Assistant Chen. Do tell me the details of this person we caught in here?"
Chen's voice was crisp and clear from the doorway. "Marcus Riggs. Forty-two. Married to Lena Riggs. They have two children. A daughter, Sophia, age eight. A son, Leo, age five. They reside at 2847 Elm Street, apartment 4B."
Haven turned her dead-eyed gaze back to Marcus. "You hear that? We have the details of your family. You don't want things to happen to them, do you? An apartment fire can be so… tragic. So sudden."
"No!" Marcus gasped, the first crack in his facade. "Please, they have nothing to do with this!"
"They have everything to do with this," Haven corrected him calmly. "They are your weakness. And you, by targeting my wife, have made them a target." She leaned in again. "Hmm. Are you sure you won't talk?"
He was crying now, silent tears of despair. But he shook his head, a stubborn, foolish loyalty keeping him silent.
Haven's patience, a thread already worn thin, snapped.
"Chen," she said, her voice dropping back to that deadly calm. "Bring his family here tomorrow. Do it silently. And please, make sure they're alive. I want them to see what their father has been doing."
"NO!" Marcus screamed, thrashing against his bonds. "You monster! Leave them out of this!"
"Still won't talk?" Haven mused, as if he'd merely declined a cup of tea. "Fine. I'm running out of patience here."
She moved with a fluid, practiced grace. She didn't shout, didn't rage. She simply raised the pistol, aimed it at his thigh, and pulled the trigger.
Phut.
The silenced shot was a dull, wet thump. Marcus howled, a raw, animal sound of agony as blood bloomed on his trousers.
"Well," Haven said, watching him dispassionately. "If you won't talk, worse can happen. To you. Or to your family."
She shifted her aim to his other leg.
Phut.
Another scream tore from his throat, echoing in the sterile room. The coppery scent of blood now mixed with the sweat and fear.
Haven knelt before him, ignoring his pained sobs. She leaned in so close her lips were almost touching his ear, her voice a venomous whisper.
"I don't know if I want to make you suffer more," she confessed, the words chilling in their sincerity, "or thank you." She paused, letting that sink in. "You and your kind… what you did to my wife… you gave her amnesia. You wiped her clean." A twisted, possessive smile touched her lips. "You took the tyrant from me. And you gave me back my songbird. So, in a way… thank you."
She pulled back slightly, her gaze drifting to the bloody wounds on his legs with clinical detachment. "The last time I had to deal with four of your colleagues who were equally stubborn, I wasn't so careful. I got sloppy. Let one of them get too close." Her finger traced a faint, almost invisible line along her own ribcage, hidden beneath the impeccable suit. "Came home with a souvenir. A deep gouge from a broken bottle. Spent the whole evening tense, smiling through the burn, making sure my wife didn't notice as I walk to the bathroom, that she didn't smell the blood antiseptic under my perfume. I won't make that mistake again. I'll be more… thorough. With you. And with anyone else who gets in my way."
She stood up, looking down at the broken, weeping man as if he were a problem already solved. "I'll be back tomorrow. If you won't talk then… well, I don't know? Maybe I'll put my anger on your own kin. Or maybe I'll just take my time. I've learned to enjoy the process."
She turned and walked out, the door closing behind her, muffling the sounds of his pain. She handed the pistol back to the guard without a word. A fine mist of blood speckled the sleeve of her emerald suit jacket. She looked at it with mild distaste.
In the private quarters of the warehouse—a spartan but clean room with a shower—she stripped off the blood-stained uniform. She showered, the hot water scalding away the external filth, but doing nothing for the darkness within. She dressed in an identical emerald pantsuit from a closet kept here for such occasions.
Chen was waiting with a tablet. "The initial reports still point towards the Sinclairs. The financial trails are obfuscated, but they all lead back to that nest of vipers. We don't have enough for a public move, but the circumstantial evidence is overwhelming."
Haven nodded, her mind already compartmentalizing. The predator was sated, for now. The CEO had to return. The wife… the wife was waiting.
On the drive home, she passed a patisserie she knew Althea liked. On an impulse, she pulled over. The bell on the door jingled. The Omega shopkeeper, a young man, immediately perked up, his scent a cloying mix of peach and syrup. He started his sales pitch, his eyes lingering on Haven with obvious interest, suggesting tarts and eclairs.
Haven cut him off, her voice flat and final. "I want the strawberry shortcake. For my wife."
The shopkeeper's flirty demeanor vanished instantly, replaced by a respectful nod. "Of course, ma'am."
The cake box sat on the passenger seat, a tiny, absurd beacon of normalcy. The juxtaposition was not lost on her. She had just tortured a man, threatened his children, and now she was bringing home dessert.
She parked in the garage, the silence of the house a stark contrast to the warehouse. She opened the door, and the sight that greeted her sent a jolt through her system so powerful it was painful.
Althea was on the living room floor, on her stomach, her chin propped in her hands, watching Sushi try to conquer a new squeaky toy. She was wearing another one of Haven's oversized shirts, her hair a messy halo, and she was talking to the dog in that same goofy, rambling tone Haven had listened to all day.
"—and the key to a successful pounce, Sushi, is commitment. You can't be half-hearted. You have to yeet your entire soul into it—"
A wave of such violent, possessive jealousy washed over Haven that she froze. She was jealous of a golden retriever. Jealous of its simple, uncomplicated access to Althea's affection, of its ability to spend all day in her light while she, Haven, had to wade through blood and filth to protect it.
Then, Althea noticed her.
Her face lit up, a sunrise after an endless night. "Haven!"
She scrambled to her feet and ran, not walked, ran across the room and launched herself into Haven's arms, burying her face in her chest. "You're back!"
The darkness, the fury, the cold calculation—it all shattered. The obsessive stalker, the toxic leader, the monster from the warehouse vanished, and all that was left was a woman desperately in love, holding her entire world.
Haven's arms tightened around Althea, her eyes closing as she inhaled the pure, sweet scent of Vanilla Strawberry. This. This was why she did it. This was what she would burn the whole world to protect.
"I'm back," she whispered into Althea's hair, her voice thick with an emotion she couldn't name. And for the first time since she'd read that message, Haven Hartwell felt like she was home.
and she suddenly noticed the cake I'm carrying "OMG is that for me?"