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When we finally come to a stop, I tug at the door handle, but it’s locked.
“Let me out. Please.” I start beggin’, but my words become muffled when his hand covers my mouth.
I’m dragged over the middle console, and out of the driver’s side.
“Shut the feck up,” the man hisses.
Suddenly, the rumblin’ of bikes gets louder once more. My captor drags me along behind him, and no matter what I do, I can’t fight him off.
“Ye’ll bring in a nice sum,” he whispers in my ear, causin’ dread ta skitter down my spine.
I stumble beside him, as he walks with intent towards a large warehouse. We’re close ta the water. I can hear the lappin’ of small ripples against the wooden beams of what I now see is a dark pier.
It’s then that the sound of a gunshot deafens me, and I fall to the ground as the man with the scar drops dead in front of me with a bullet to his head. The hard concrete under my knees cuts into my skin, and a scream is wrenched from my throat.
Suddenly, strong hands grip me, and I’m lifted ta my feet. I’m spun around as if I’m nothin’ more than a feckin’ rag doll, and I come face-ta-face with a very handsome, but dangerous lookin’ man.
“Leave me the feck alone,” I bite out as anger and fear overwhelm me.
An adrenalin rush shocks my system ta life, and I try ta pull away from his grip, but the man holdin’ onto me is far too strong, and I can’t fight him off. His gaze flickers over me as he takes me in. His jaw ticks, and I can tell from the movement of his strong, angular face he’s grindin’ his teeth. Full lips curl into a sneer as he looks down on me, his green eyes glintin’, like a feckin’ snake watchin’ its prey.
I’m goin’ta die.
I’m goin’ta die.
It’s possible I’m chantin’ those words out loud. I’m not sure about that, but I do know I’m shakin’ uncontrollably. My whole body’s tremblin’ with fear.
“Listen ta me, wee thing,” the man hisses.
“What?” I croak, my throat suddenly dry, and my hands clammy.
I attempt ta focus on those forest green eyes. They remind me of summer when the leaves are bright; they’re almost feckin’ luminous.
“What’s yer name?” he asks me, his voice is warm, non-threatenin’, but I still can’t trust he won’t hurt me.
“Lia.” I can hardly hear my own voice when I speak. It’s bein’ drowned out by the deafenin’ rhythm of my heartbeat thumpin’ in my ears.
“And why the feck were ye with that bastard?” His words are a low, feral sound this time. The anger in his question is palpable.
“Let’s go,” Another voice comes from the shadows, and its rumblin’ tone makes my stomach tumble.
When the man attached to said voice walks into view, under the warehouse spotlights, my breath is knocked from my lungs. I don’t know him, but I feckin’ don’t mind learnin’ about him.
He’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen—with his messy, just got out of bed hair, his angular jawline with a dustin’ of stubble, and eyes that seem ta look right into my soul. It’s as if he’s seein’ all the ugly things I’ve done, and he’s not judgin’ me.
“Who are ye?” I whisper in awe, surprised at my reaction to him.
I can tell these men are from Belfast because of their accent, which has me wonderin’ what they’re doin’ all the way down here. It’s not like it’s an ocean away, but I didn’t think many people came down here from the North. Especially men who look like them.
“We’re takin’ her back with us,” the one holdin’ onto me says.
“No!” I try ta tug away, but I can’t.
It’s annoyin’ I’m so much weaker than them. I hate it. Deep down, I want ta be stronger. I want ta be able ta fight back. Bein’ a feckin’ girl doesn’t sit well with me. The thought almost makes me laugh. But I stifle it and pin the man holdin’ me with a glare.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere with ye,” I tell him.
“But ye’ll go with a feckin’ stranger who was goin’ta sell ye off to a sex traffickin’ gang?” the handsome prince draped in leather and denim challenges and the fire blazin’ in his eyes shows his anger.
My mouth pops open, but no words come out. I never thought anythin’ like that could happen ta me. Perhaps I am too naïve ta be livin’ on my own.
“How old are ye, Lia?” the man holdin’ me asks. I hesitate because I don’t want ta have ta come clean about my age. I’m sure if I do, he’s goin’ta take me ta the police. I could be arrested and lose my freedom. “I just need ta know so I can come up with a feckin’ believable story fer ye,” the man informs me with a sigh.
