His body presses against mine, pinning me. I can smell his cologne—expensive and suffocating, mixed with sweat and smoke.
“Ahh, she’s a fighter.” His breath is hot on my neck. “I like that. The buyers will pay extra for spirit.”
He fists his hand in my hair again and yanks my head back. His other hand slides down my side, possessive and violating. I feel my scrub tear as he grips the fabric.
Something breaks inside me then. Not my spirit—my fear. If I’m going to die anyway, then I’m going down fighting.
I bite down on his hand, hard enough to taste blood. He roars and pulls back, and I use the split second of space to drive my knee up toward his groin. I miss and hit his thigh instead, but it’s enough to make him stagger.
I scream and scratch at his face. My nails raking down his cheek, drawing blood.
He curses and slams me back against the wall. “You fucking bitch!”
This time my head hits hard enough to make everything go blank and dizzy. I’m on the floor suddenly, blinking up at him through double vision. My torn scrub is hanging off one shoulder.
Get up. Get up get up get up?—
“Stupid bitch. I’ll teach you a fucking lesson…” He reaches for his belt then stops. He storms to the desk instead and picks up the gun sitting there.
My heart stops beating completely.
This is it. He’s going to blow my brains out.
But he doesn’t point it at me. He just stands lax, listening to something I can’t hear yet.
Then I hear it too. Gunshots.
Loud and incessant. Rapid-fire and professional, echoing through the mansion like thunder.
He freezes, and his whole body goes rigid. The gun in his hand is no longer casual, it’s ready now, aimed at the door.
The gunfire gets closer and louder. It’s mixed with shouting and screaming and the crash of breaking things. Utter chaos.
What the hell is happening?
This is my opportunity, I should run, use this distraction. But my body won’t cooperate. I’m shaking too hard and my vision is still blurred from hitting my head so hard. Adrenaline and terror are making my limbs heavy and uncooperative.
Someone shouts “Antonio!” in the chaos, and the man—Antonio—starts talking into his phone now. Rapid Italian that I can’tunderstand. His face has gone white and twisted with anger and fear.
If this bastard won’t kill me, whoever is outside, most likely will.
More gunshots. But closer this time, and right outside the door. Suddenly, the door explodes inward.
A man walks through the wreckage and he looks like death incarnate.
He’s tall, around six-three. Broad shoulders strain against a black shirt and expensive jacket. His dark hair is pushed back from his face, and he’s got winter-grey eyes that are completely empty of anything resembling warmth or mercy.
He’s holding a gun like it’s part of his hand. Like violence is just his native language.
And he’s covered in blood. Not just spattered—covered. His shirt, his hands, even his face. Fresh blood, still wet, belonging to god knows how many people who got in his way between the front door and here.
This is not a rescue. This is just a different kind of monster.
His gaze sweeps the room and takes in everything in less than a heartbeat.
Those storm-grey eyes settle on me for a brief second and something flickers in them. Something I can’t identify but that sends a chill down my spine.
Then he looks at Antonio and his expression goes completely flat and lethal.
