Adrian’s POV
Three days of surveillance, of sitting in a van watching parents pick up their children. Three days of scanning faces, checking photos, hoping.
It's Thursday afternoon when I see him.
Bellamy.
He’s walking up to the school entrance like he has every right to be here. Like he's just a normal father picking up his son instead of a kidnapper who stole my fiancée.
The rage is immediate, consuming. Every cell in my body screams to move. To cross the street. To grab him by the throat and demand to know where Sophie is.
To beat the information out of him if necessary. To make him pay for every second she's been gone.
My hand is on the door handle before Ayden grabs my arm.
"Don't." His voice is low, urgent. "Adrian, don't."
"That's him." The words come out through clenched teeth. "That's fucking him."
"I know. But not here. Not with the kid watching."
Noah emerges from the school building. Five years old, backpack too big for his small frame. He runs to Bellamy, who crouches down to hug him.
The sight makes me want to vomit.
That child has no idea his father is a monster. Has no idea Sophie is somewhere nearby, held against her will. Has no idea the man hugging him destroyed multiple lives for his own twisted fantasy.
"Adrian." Ayden's grip tightens. "Think: if you attack him here, in public, in front of his kid, you'll be arrested. Sophie will still be wherever he's keeping her, and he'll disappear again before we can find her."
He's right, I know he's right. But the rage makes it hard to think clearly.
Bellamy takes Noah's hand. They walk to a car parked on the street—a gray sedan, nothing remarkable. European plates.
"Get the license plate," I manage.
Ayden is already typing into his phone. "Got it."
Bellamy buckles Noah into the back seat. Gets in the driver's side. Pulls away from the curb.
"Follow him," I say. "Stay back. Don't let him see us."
Ayden starts the van. We pull out behind two other cars, maintaining distance. Professional surveillance—far enough not to be noticed, close enough not to lose him.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. My hands are shaking with suppressed violence.
Sophie is somewhere in this city. Somewhere close enough that Bellamy can drop Noah at school and pick him up. Within fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.
We're so close.
Bellamy drives through Geneva streets. Takes a left, then a right, weaves through traffic like someone familiar with the routes.
He has no idea he's being followed. No idea that after over a month of searching, I've finally found him.
We follow him toward Old Town. The streets get narrower here, more winding. Medieval architecture crowding in on both sides.
Bellamy turns down a side street. Ayden follows… But there's a delivery truck blocking the road. The driver is arguing with someone about where to unload. Cars are backed up behind it.
"Go around," I say, urgency making my voice sharp.
"I'm trying!"
By the time we get past the blockage and reach the side street, Bellamy's car is gone.
We drive up and down the narrow roads. Check every parking spot, every turn-off. Nothing.
He's gone.
"Fuck!" The word explodes out of me. I hit the dashboard hard enough that pain shoots through my hand. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
"Adrian…"
"We were right there! Right fucking there!" I want to scream. Want to tear something apart with my bare hands. "He was in our sights and we lost him."
"We know the area now," Ayden says, trying to stay calm. "We know he lives somewhere in Old Town. That narrows it down significantly."
"It's not enough." My voice is raw. "He could be anywhere in a ten-block radius. Hundreds of apartments. Thousands of people."
"Then we canvass. We search every building if we have to."
I lean back in the seat, eyes closed, trying to control the rage and frustration and desperation threatening to consume me.
We were so close.
***
Back at the hotel, Ayden goes to his room to compile everything we learned today. I go to my room and close the door.
The adrenaline is still coursing through me. I strip off my clothes and step into the shower.
I turn the water as hot as I can stand it. Let it beat down on my shoulders, my back, trying to wash away the frustration of being so close and still empty-handed.
But all I can think about how close Sophie is. About what Bellamy might be doing to her right now. Whether he's touching her, looking at her. Whether she's okay, whether she's scared, whether she thinks I've given up looking.
The thought makes my hands curl into fists against the shower wall.
Then another thought pushes through: I think about seeing her again. Having her back. Bringing her home where she belongs.
I think about having her in the Red Room again, on her knees, looking up at me with those eyes that trust me completely.
My cock is already hard. My hand moves down, wrapping around myself.
I think about Sophie's body—the curve of her spine when she kneels for me. The way she shivers when I run my hands over her skin. The sounds she makes when I touch her.
I stroke myself slowly, letting the images build.
Sophie naked and waiting. Sophie with her hands bound above her head, looking at me with that mix of trust and need that makes me want to give her everything and take everything at the same time.
About telling her to kneel and watching her sink down gracefully, perfectly, her eyes never leaving mine.
"Good girl," I'd whisper, and she'd flush with pride and arousal.
My grip tightens. My strokes get faster.
I think about reclaiming her. About stripping away every moment Bellamy looked at her, every word he said to her, every second she was away from me. About making her come so many times she forgets anyone exists but me.
About her saying "yes, Sir" in that breathless voice that goes straight to my cock. About her begging—"please, Adrian, please"—when I make her wait, when I edge her until she's trembling and desperate.
About finally, finally giving her what she needs and watching her come apart under my hands while I remind her that she's mine, no matter how far away she was.
The water beats down on my shoulders. My breathing is ragged now. My hand moving faster, rougher, chasing the release that's building low in my spine.
I imagine walking behind Sophie in the Red Room, running my hand through her hair, gripping it gently while I tell her all the things I'm going to do to her.
I imagine binding her to the bench, making her come on my fingers, my tongue, my cock until she's sobbing with pleasure and relief and the absolute certainty that she's home.
About reclaiming every inch of her that Bellamy looked at, touched, corrupted with his obsession.
"Sophie," I groan, her name torn from my throat.
The release hits me hard. I come with her name on my lips, my free hand braced against the shower wall, water streaming over me as pleasure crashes through my body in waves.
For a moment, there's nothing but that—the physical release, the temporary relief of tension wound too tight for too long.
Then it fades, and the desperation comes roaring back.
I lean against the shower wall, water still running, my breathing slowly returning to normal. The temporary relief already fading into the same consuming need that's driven me for over a month.
The release was physical but it doesn't touch the ache underneath. The need that goes deeper than sex, deeper than possession, deeper than dominance.
I need her back. Not just in my bed but in my life. In Amelia's life. Home.
I need to see her smile, hear her laugh, watch her hold our daughter, to know she's safe.
The shower water starts to run cold. I turn it off.