Vice and Void (The Savage Wolves Brotherhood #1)

50. Epilogue

Epilogue

Callum

“Callum Reynolds. Back in the fire.”

The voice rose above the footsteps echoing along the grated walkway, and rubber soles squeaked against the metal.

Callum braced his forearms on the iron crossbar, letting his hands dangle out of the cell. “Couldn’t stay away from you, Petey.”

The man across the corridor grinned across the block, flashing a smile missing two bottom teeth. He stuck his tongue through the gap, waggling it suggestively. “Can’t wait 'til we’re out in the yard. I’ll show you how much I missed you, too.”

“Looking forward to it,” Callum mused. He tracked his gaze down Petey’s hands, locking in on the familiar viper tattooed around his forearm. He was so fucked. Even more fucked than the first time he got locked up. At least the last time, the prison was controlled by the Brotherhood. But now…

Petey chuckled, though it was more of a growl than a laugh. “Quite a few of us are itching to get our hands on you.”

A terrified hum broke out behind him, high-pitched with enough of a squeal that Petey and three other inmates along the row cackled. Callum glanced over his shoulder, spotting his new bunkmate still huddled in the corner of his cot, knees drawn to his chest. He didn’t even know the kid’s name. He did know that the kid wasn’t going to last more than a week. He might not fare much better.

“You’re looking good, Callum,” a second voice called from the cell beside Petey’s. Callum recognized the long-necked, broad-nosed man as Diver. Another Viper.

“Blue is my color,” Callum replied, reaching to his chest to casually pluck at the prison uniform’s starchy top. “Can’t say the same for you. Flushes you out a bit.”

Diver’s amused snort was short-lived as the guard reached the end of the block. “Quiet. All of you.”

“Oh, come on now,” Petey crooned, his grin widening. “We’re just having some fun with our old pal. It’s been so long since we’ve—“ He hissed out a breath of pain when the guard swung his baton up and brought it down on Petey’s fingers. Petey retracted his hand into the cell, and his mouth curled in a snarl.

“I said shut it.”

The boy behind Callum whimpered again. He would need to stop that if he wanted to live. Boys didn’t get coddled in prison. Callum sure didn’t. He learned to defend himself, to stand up to the gangs in the yard, to guard any and all resources he could find. With a sigh, he turned to face the kid.

“You gotta quit.”

The boy lifted his head from where it rested on his knees. His red-rimmed eyes and the tops of his cheeks were swollen, and tears streaked wet patterns down to his chin. He was younger than Callum thought—in his late teens at the most. It was probably some stupid fucking reminder of his own imprisonment twelve years ago, but something inside of him broke at the sight.

“Wipe your eyes. You look like a fucking fool.”

The boy quickly swiped at his tears with the back of his wrist. He took a sharp breath that sounded wet under the swell of his nose, and Callum barely restrained the cringe threatening to curve his upper lip.

“What’s your name?”

“C-Carver.”

“Callum.” He sat on the edge of the mattress, cursing the freshly laundered prison uniform pants that clamped around his thighs. “What are you in for?”

Carver swallowed as another set of jeers floated in from Petey and Diver, but he kept his eyes trained on Callum. “I—shoplifting.”

“Prison for shoplifting?”

Carver shrugged, giving a sheepish grin that only made him look more like a kid. “It was a lot of shoplifting.” He picked at a crusted stain on the mattress sheet, his eyes tracking along the line of toiletries set on the metal rack behind the stainless steel sink. “You?”

“Murder.” Carver blanched as his gaze shot up, eyes wide and nostrils flared. Callum almost got a kick out of it. Almost. “I didn’t fucking do it, don’t worry.”

It didn’t seem to make Carver any less terrified.

“Reynolds.” The mechanical locks on the cell door clunked open, a loud buzz that vibrated down to Callum’s bones ringing from the intercom in the hallway. “Let’s go.”

Callum quirked a brow at the guard standing at the entrance, a baton in one hand and the other resting on the butt of his gun. “Gonna take me to dinner first?”

“Funny.” The guard motioned for Callum to stand with a wave of the thick plastic. “Warden wants to see you.”

That wasn’t any fucking good.

“Why?”

“I said get up, not ask a million fucking questions.” With his free hand, the guard reached into his back pocket and yanked out a set of handcuffs. “I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

Carver seemed to curl into an even tighter ball as the guard stepped into the cell, revealing a secondary pair of guards behind him. With a sigh, Callum slapped his hands against his thighs and stood before holding out his wrists for the guard to clamp the cuffs around him. “Hoping she’ll take you to dinner first?”

The guard cinched them a hair tighter than necessary.

Callum hadn’t been in this part of the prison before. It took a decent amount of time to get there, considering the chains strapped around his ankles. By the two-toned bell that rang through the corridors, he had missed lunch. Fuck. His stomach rumbled, clenching painfully against the wall of his abdomen.

He was led to the administrative hallway through the other men’s cell blocks and was sure to note the number of Viper tattoos he saw along the way. Enough to surround him in the yard and beat the shit out of him before the guards could do anything to stop them. That was if they didn’t kill him first.

“Warden?” The guard rapped on the door before pushing it open with a splayed hand. “ Prisoner’s here.”

“Thanks, Beau.” The no-nonsense female voice spilled from inside the office. “Send him in.”

Callum was shoved forward, and though the movement was expected, he still kept his feet under him. Chains rattling as he walked, he shouldered the door open the rest of the way and inched into the office. It was drab and unassuming, just as Dakota had described. Cement walls, gray flooring, a single window overlooking the women’s yard. No personal effects, no color of any sort.

That wasn’t what surprised Callum. He had expected that. What did surprise him was who sat behind the old desk, his elbows propped on the laminate wood surface. Governor Vincent Drake. The hunger Callum felt only seconds before clenched into something more painful as his hardened gaze darted between the governor and the warden.

“Callum Reynolds. What a pleasure.” The warden, Laura Sanchez, looked like it was anything but. Her gray suit jacket was open, unveiling a white blouse tucked neatly into a matching pair of gray pants. Not a single hair was out of place from where she had pulled it back into a bun. “Please, take a seat. You can go.”

“Ma’am—“ The guard started, but he was cut off by a curt shake of Laura’s head. He remained silent as the door closed behind him.

Callum hesitated for a long minute before shuffling forward. He had never met the governor before, nor was he happy to do so while cuffed and chained. Though he was weasely and small, Vincent Drake had a dangerous reputation. Callum wasn’t in the mood to discover how true that reputation was.

Laura pushed off from where she had been leaning her hip against the desk as Callum sank into the empty chair. With a swipe of her hand, she grabbed the file atop the closest metal filing cabinet and flicked it open.

“Thirty years old. One living parent and brother, second parent deceased.” Her eyes lifted from the file, head cocking as she assessed him with an eagle-eyed stare that could rival his mother’s. “Conviction overturned three years ago in the case of your murdered father.”

“Is there a question here?” Callum drawled. “Or did you drag me from my cell to recite my life story?”

Something menacing flashed in the depths of the warden’s gaze, and her pained smile was more reminiscent of a grimace. “The death of your stepfather must have come as a shock. It’s noted here that tension has been witnessed between you since your release. ”

“I’m sure that’s the angle the counselors will take. If they’re smart, anyway.”

“You’re down here as a courtesy,” Laura said, a bite of warning in her voice. “I would watch your tone.”

Callum scoffed, leaning back in his seat. “You still haven’t told me what I’m down here for.”

Vincent Drake’s slow smile sent an oily feeling through his gut. The governor reached beneath the table and pulled a drawer open. “That we can reconcile.” An item dropped onto the table with a heavy thunk . “I believe you recognize this.”

Callum’s gaze dropped to the familiar leather journal. He trained his expression to remain neutral, impassive even, but his palms slicked, and his heart fell to his prison-issued shoes. But when he looked back at the governor, he pushed all that aside to send the man an unruffled smirk. “Glad to see you’re writing in a diary, gov. Men's mental health is overlooked these days.” He should have burned the fucking thing when he had a chance.

Vincent didn’t take the bait. He cracked open the journal, slowly flipping through the pages. “This came to us by happenstance, really. Through a young man that you're familiar with. Maverick Malone. He insists it’s Dakota Montgomery’s and—“ He lifted the journal to showcase a page of scribbles and notations. “Considering the complexity of the illegal experimentations here, I’m inclined to believe he’s right.”

Callum’s snort was condescendingly unkind as Vincent returned the book to the desk. “Dakota’s a smart woman—“

“A brilliant woman, one might say—“

“Which means she’s smart enough to know the cost of experimenting.” Callum shrugged.

Laura made a noise of disagreement from the back of her throat, but Vincent only swept his stare over Callum’s face. In curiosity? To locate a crack in his demeanor? He didn’t know. The single thing he knew was that he would take protecting Dakota to his grave. And it probably would.

“You know Dakota Montgomery well, then?” the Governor asked. He braced his elbows on the table, letting his fingers steeple beneath his pointed chin.

“Well enough.”

“Let’s not be argumentative here, Mister Reynolds. You went to the same school from the age of ten. You dated from ages sixteen to eighteen. You were getting ready to propose.” Vincent was the spider, intricately weaving a trap he hoped to catch Callum in. Callum wasn’t going to let him.

“Things change. People change.”

“Ah, young love.” Vincent nudged Laura with his shoulder, a knowing grin curving the corners of his mouth. She returned it in kind. “But here’s the thing, Mister Reynolds.” He snapped his fingers, and Laura opened the file in her hand again, rifling through to retrieve a small stack of papers. She slapped them onto the table, tenting her fingers over them to spin them in his direction. “Things don’t change. And people don’t change.”

Callum leaned to grab the papers, both hands dragging forward from the tight cuffs around his wrists. Photographs met his stare, picture after picture of Dakota in her home, at the grocery store, and in Lyra’s home, half-dressed, tanning in a bikini. He tossed the pile back onto the desk, disgust rising like bile in his throat. “What are you doing with this shit?”

Laura’s triumphant gaze twisted the space behind his navel. “I bet you think about that sweet little tattoo on her hip. You know the one. The one you tattooed to hide her mark.” She pulled the bikini photo back over, the tip of her forefinger tapping against his initials.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mister Reynolds, I asked you not to be argumentative,” Vincent scolded him.

Callum licked his lips but otherwise stayed perfectly still in his seat. “Where did you get these?”

Laura shrugged. “Ethan Sullivan's still missing. We searched his house, searched his car. Found a camera beneath the driver’s seat. Developed the film…” Her smirk returned in full. “I doubt he even knew what he inadvertently handed us. His obsession with that tight little pussy—“

Callum was out of his chair in the next breath, his chains clanking as he lunged for the warden. He stumbled, slamming a hip against the desk just in time for Laura to falter back. She recovered in record time. Smack . A ring-clad hand landed against his mouth, and Callum felt his lip split. Felt the warm trickle of blood against his chin.

“Take a seat, Mister Reynolds,” Vincent tutted as Callum’s chest heaved. The pulse pounding against his eardrums was the bass to his rage, and it took him a moment to register what the governor had said. “Now.”

Not taking his eyes from Laura Sanchez, Callum slunk back into his seat, inhaling long, slow breaths, licking the blood from his split lip. He focused solely on the wafting scent of old files as the heat from the vent above them kicked on. He pretended it was amber and vanilla with a hint of raspberry, the only scent on this whole fucking planet that could calm him.

“We have a proposal for you,” Vincent went on as he scooped up the papers, tapped them into a neat pile, and handed them to Laura over his shoulder. “One that, I think, you’ll be agreeable to.”

“I doubt that.”

Vincent ignored him. “You’re one of the city’s best smugglers—don’t deny it. You’ll only upset me.” Callum clamped his lips shut. “You move distillations to the Vanguard Syndicate. Now, you move them for me.”

Callum scoffed, shaking his head. “And if I refuse?”

Vincent pondered him for a long minute before replying. “Mister Reynolds, I don’t think you understand your position. You’re in prison, accused of murdering your stepfather. Dakota is a hidden Void, the only one we’ve found in years. You distill for me . You move those distillations to my soldiers. In return, I keep Dakota Montgomery safe.”

“Again—and if I refuse?”

An unladylike snort came from Laura, who had conveniently managed to stay outside Callum’s reach.

“You don’t refuse. You can’t refuse,” Vincent amended. A beam of sunlight broke through the thick autumn clouds, streaming in the window to outline his silhouette in bright gold. “That’s the thing about it. You can’t beat the system. Not when I am the system. And, as of right now, Dakota’s working knowledge of distillations is the only thing keeping her out of my custody. How long do you think my benevolence will last if you keep challenging me?”

Callum looked beyond the governor, staring at the view of the prison yard over his shoulder. Women and guards moved like ants across the browning grass, clusters of people curled against the blustering wind. The most prominent figures were hidden along the building’s exterior, and he remembered enough about the place that he knew contraband deals were being done on the sly to ensure a spot along the warmth of the wall.

Off in the distance, a maelstrom of angry, black clouds hovered at the horizon. Fueled by the sea and the power of the Banished Gods on the other side of The Boundary, it wouldn’t take long for the storm to reach the prison. It wouldn’t take long for this fucking shitstorm to reach Dakota. And he was stuck in here, just like those prisoners at the wall. Caught in the governor’s tangled web.

He licked his lips again, but the split was no longer there—healed completely in a matter of minutes. Every thought drained from his mind. Fuck. That fucking distill lingered .

Vincent must have taken Callum's hesitant uncertainty, his quiet disdain, as dejection. Vincent clapped his hands, nearly vibrating with giddiness. Callum wanted nothing more than to slit the man’s throat. He would get his time. He just needed to wait it out. If he had that long.

“I knew you would see reason.”

Laura sidled along the row of filing cabinets, remaining firmly out of his reach, to yank her office door open. She snapped her fingers, silently ordering the reentry of the guard waiting for them in the hallway.

“Don’t take too long to start,” Vincent noted as Callum rose from his seat. The guard’s hand wrapped tightly around his upper arm to steer him back toward his cell. “The clock is ticking.”

As Callum fought to quash the inferno that promised to burn him alive, the guard guided him out of the office. As he passed the window overlooking the visitor’s room, an Iron Guard posted at a table with a chained prisoner, something occurred to him. A dreaded thought. One that sunk like a boulder into the recesses of his chest, laying heavily against his heart.

There was one person outside of this fucking prison that knew what Dakota was. One person who would do damn near anything to ensure her safety. Callum could trust one person to lay their life on the line as he would. One fucking person.

Callum almost groaned as the thought clattered to the forefront of his mind. If he were going to be stuck in here, if there were nothing he could do to escape the inevitable, he would need that one person.

And, godsdamnit, did he fucking hate that he needed John Montgomery.