Chapter 46
Liv
“Go to hell,” I spit, thrashing against him.
His grip doesn’t loosen. Even here, with sirens screaming somewhere outside and gunfire cracking through the night, he holds me like none of it matters. Like the world could burn down around him and he’d still be standing in the center of it untouched.
My wrists strain against his hands. I twist, trying to break free, to get leverage, to get anything. Nothing.
He adjusts his grip, efficiently, like he’s done this plenty of times before. Pain shoots up my arms. “Stop,” he says again, calm as ever.
I don’t. I can’t. Because Scott is out there. Because I heard the shot. Because I felt the moment everything went wrong. Because if I stop, I’m his.
Gunfire erupts again, closer this time. The sound reverberates through the ambulance, metal amplifying every crack into something sharper and more violent.
He doesn’t even flinch. He actually thinks he’s untouchable; I can’t believe it.
I force myself to go still. It’s not surrender, never that. But still enough to think, to see and to assess.
We’re in the back of the rig. Bench seat to my right. Gurney locked in place. Upper cabinets full of supplies: sharps container, airway kit, drug box, locked, always locked.
Unless… My eyes flick toward it, quick and subtle. He follows the movement instantly. Of course he does. His mouth curves faintly. “Looking for something?”
I don’t answer. My breathing slows deliberately. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The same cadence I use on patients. Control your airway. Control your body. Control your mind.
Outside, voices shout. “Police! Drop your weapon!”
Gunfire cuts them off. More shots, closer this time. Someone’s yelling commands. Someone else is screaming. The world outside is chaos but inside this ambulance, it’s just us.
“You really made this messy,” he says, almost conversational. “I expected better.”
Tension coils in my jaw. “You expected me to just come with you?” I shoot back.
“I expected you to understand,” he corrects. There it is. That tone, measured and certain, like he’s explaining something obvious.
Like I’m the one failing to keep up.
My eyes track him as subtly as I can. His weight distribution is balanced and his dominant hand free. I don’t see a weapon on him, but I can’t rely on that. He’s too close for a clean strike. I need space, or a distraction. Or… opportunity.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “Do you know?” he says. “Did she ever tell you?”
Something cold coils in my stomach. Not fear but recognition. I know what he’s talking about, but I don’t think I want him to know that.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap at him.
“I’d tried to get her to let me take her out for weeks, but she wouldn’t fold,” he blathers on. “So, I took matters into my own hands.”
Something so vile and evil flashes across his face that it makes bile rise up my throat.
“Imagine my surprise when I found out months later that she was knocked up. She hadn’t been dating anyone, so I knew the kid was mine.”
My chest feels hollow, angry tears welling in my eyes.
“I didn’t bother getting involved, I didn’t want to have to pay for your ass for eighteen years. But I kept track of you anyway.” His eyes flick over me, dark brown just like mine. Knowing I got his eye color over my mom’s just hurts in so many ways.
“Wish you’d been a boy though,” he frowns. “Would have rather had a son.”
Gunfire cracks again, louder and closer, right outside the ambulance, cutting off his monologue and stealing his attention. The entire vehicle shudders as something slams into the side. He shifts instinctively. Just a fraction. But it’s enough.
My eyes flick back to the drug box. It’s locked. But I know this rig. I stocked it. I’ve worked in it for years. The key, set in the top cabinet, on the right side. I need him to move.
“You think you’re untouchable,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
His attention snaps back to me. Good. “Because I am,” he replies simply. No arrogance and no theatrics, just fact.
“That’s what you tell yourself,” I say.
“That’s what the evidence says,” he corrects. “No witnesses. No statements. No bodies that lead anywhere useful.”
My stomach twists. The girls. The ones from my notes. The ones no one could prove with certainty were victims of the trafficking ring. “People don’t just disappear,” I bite out.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “They do when they know better than to talk.”
Rage flares, hot and blinding. I bury it. I can’t act on it yet, not until I’m ready.
Another volley of shots, even closer. Then there’s a familiar voice somewhere in the chaos shouting commands.
My head jerks toward the doors. No, no way.
His grip tightens. “Don’t,” he warns. But it’s too late. Hope hits like a lightning strike.
Alex.
I don’t see him, not yet, but I know. I know the way he moves, the way he commands a scene, and the way his voice cuts through chaos.
My pulse spikes, not with fear, not anymore. It’s something sharper, something focused.
My father notices. His eyes narrow slightly. “Interesting,” he murmurs.
He shifts again, just enough to give me an opportunity.
I move quickly, not away from him, but toward the cabinet.
His hand shoots out, grabbing my arm, but I twist, using his momentum and slamming my shoulder into the side panel. Pain explodes through my side but ignore it. I have to keep moving.
My fingers hit the latch and yank, opening it.
The pouch drops into my hand. I rip it open. Syringes and pre-fills, labels flashing past. Epinephrine. Midazolam…. There.
Succinylcholine.
My breathing goes razor sharp.
He lunges again.
I don’t hesitate. I uncap it, swing my arm forward, and drive the syringe toward him, through fabric and angling down into the large muscle in his lateral thigh.
Inject.
The plunger depresses under my thumb. All of it. Every milligram.
He shoves me hard, making me slam back into the bench, air ripping from my lungs again. The syringe clatters somewhere out of reach.
For a second, nothing happens. He straightens, looks down at me, annoyed and dismissive.
“Really?” he says irritated like my action was nothing more than an inconvenience to him. Then it hits.
I see it, the flicker behind the eyes. His body locks, just for a fraction of a second, confusion flashes across his face.
His hand twitches, then doesn’t respond. His breath catches.
There it is, solid recognition. “No-” he starts. Too late.
The paralysis spreads fast. He staggers, trying to move but his legs don’t cooperate. He hits the floor hard, right beside me.
His eyes are wide now, fully aware and fully conscious. But trapped. His chest starts to hitch, shallow and ineffective.
Because he knows. He knows exactly what I gave him.
I don’t move, don’t rush, don’t panic. I just… watch. My breath slows again, controlled and measured.
His gaze locks onto mine. Panic bleeding through the control for the first time.
I push myself up slightly, back against the bench, looking down at him. “What’s wrong?” I ask quietly.
His throat works but no sound comes out. His chest struggles again, air not moving the way it should.
I tilt my head, studying him.
“Can’t breathe?” I continue, voice low and steady.
His eyes widen further.
“Can’t move?” I add.
His fingers twitch uselessly against the floor.
“Can’t scream?”
The rig is silent aside from the sound of his own failing breath.
I hold his gaze. I don’t dare look away. I don’t soften. Because this is what he did to them. Every single one of them.
“You don’t get to walk away from this,” I say, not loud or angry. Just… final.
Outside, the gunfire is still going on. Shouts, orders, and chaos.
But inside the ambulance, it’s over.
And for the first time since I became aware of the trafficking ring, probably since the whole ring was started, he isn’t in control.