Chapter 24 #2
“I’ll die before I go back there,” I huffed. “Death would be a mercy.”
Lucian’s hand slapped the window, making me jump.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true, though.”
“Have a little faith in me,” he added, softer.
I let out a short laugh. “I barely know you. How can you expect me to ignore this? This is dangerous—maybe even life-or-death. I can’t do that to you…or any of these men.”
Intellectually, I understood I shouldn’t trust a mafia man who’d kidnapped me. Logic screamed it. But my gut told me I could. That instinct didn’t care about reason.
If Lucian had wanted me dead, I’d be dead. If he’d wanted to hurt me, use me, trade me, ransom me—he’d have done it already. Instead, he handled me as though I were breakable. As though I mattered. As though losing me would cost him everything.
And the way he’d looked at me when he told me I was pretty, it hadn’t sounded like a line.
It had sounded as if I were the very air he needed to breathe.
“Normally,” Lucian said finally, “you shouldn’t trust any man in these circumstances.”
At least he wasn’t lying.
“But for your sake,” he continued, “I need you to give me the chance to prove something to you.”
He stepped closer.
“I’ll do anything to keep you safe,” he said. “Anything. I’ll lay down my life if I have to. And right now, you’re better off sticking close to me than any other person on this planet.”
His voice dropped.
“Can you promise me that, Scar?”
I stared at the glass, at the reflection staring back at me. My fingers worried the hem of my sweater.
Everything in my life told me not to trust him.
But some part of me already had.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I promise I’ll trust you until you give me a reason not to.”
Lucian exhaled. “I’ll take that.”
He gestured toward the stairs. “Let’s go downstairs. There’s a private room where you can relax while we figure out our next steps.”
Relax? That was a stretch. But I nodded.
He gave me a quick tour as we moved.
Upstairs first—the living space I’d already seen. He pointed out the room with the glass door. “Network operations room,” he said. “The others up here are just bedrooms.”
We headed downstairs next.
Lucian opened the door to the right, and I froze.
A trauma bay stared back at me with professional equipment, monitors, and cabinets stocked with supplies. The kind of setup that any emergency department would envy. Everything was clinical and organized.
“This is the medical suite,” Lucian said. “If someone gets hurt, they don’t go to a hospital.”
I didn’t need to ask why.
He guided me in the opposite direction, down another short hall, where a door stood open to a bedroom.
A sanctuary built for people who’d already been through hell.
“You can hang out here while I work with the others,” he said.
His phone buzzed.
Lucian checked the screen, typed a fast reply, then turned back to me.
Without warning, his hand slid into my hair, fingers twisting tightly. He pulled my head back just enough that I had to meet his eyes.
“No matter what happens,” he commanded, “or what you might hear, you do not leave this room unless I come get you. Do you understand me?”
My pulse spiked, but I nodded.
He held my gaze a moment longer, searching, then let go.
He stepped out into the hall, punched a code into the pad beside the door, and closed it behind him.
The lock clicked.
I stood there alone, staring at the door, my promise echoing in my head.
Trust him until he gives me a reason not to.
I paced the room, five steps one way, five back. It was too small to burn off the energy crawling under my skin. Too quiet.
Lucian’s reaction to the text he’d just received had nearly taken my knees out.
His eyes were so dark, and if looks could kill, whoever had just pissed him off wouldn’t be breathing long.
It wasn’t the feral heat I’d seen at The Ledger.
Nor the barely leashed violence from last night when I’d lost my mind and tried to stab him in the heart.
This was something else entirely.
Seeing that expression gave me a different perspective on the other times. This was pure, unadulterated rage—controlled violence.
He’d been holding back with me. This was terrifying, and thankfully, not directed at me.
God, I still couldn’t believe I’d been so deranged and had tried to kill him. That I actually lifted a knife and went for his heart. I cringed and dragged a hand through my hair.
The cocktail of booze, wild emotions, and the fear of a man kidnapping me while I was buck naked had made me snap.
Now that I had some time to rest, food in my stomach, and a few minutes to gather my thoughts, it was easy to see there was another side to Mr. Shadowman.
He must have the patience of a saint because I’d already put him through hell. He even had the scar to prove it.
And worse—there was something about him that lit me up in the best and most dangerous way.
I hated everything about my sexuality. Hated what it had cost me. Hated that survival had meant submission, pretending, giving men what they wanted just to eat another day. The thought of being touched still made my stomach knot, even when my body had betrayed me for him.
When I told him I’d rather die than go back to Spain, I meant it.
He couldn’t possibly understand that. All he knew was that I’d been locked up, then ran away, and now worked at a club. That was the clean version. The acceptable version.
What would he think if he knew how dirty I really was?
That what I’d done at The Ledger barely scratched the surface. That performance had been nothing compared to the things I’d endured. The things I’d let happen. The things I’d learned to do to survive.
He’d touched me like I was something lovable.
He brushed my cheek as though he thought I was a good girl.
I couldn’t ever let him know the truth.
A heavy thud slammed into the floor above my head.
I jumped.
The unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor above my head jolted me out of my thoughts.
Before my brain caught up, gunfire cracked through the house.
Not warning shots. Controlled bursts. Real engagement.
The walls muffled the sound, but the gunfight still bled through. Heavy footsteps pounded overhead. Muffled shouts. Someone yelled an order in a language I didn’t recognize.
Then another shot. And another thud.
And another.
The panic exploded in my chest.
Had Lucian been killed?
I backed away from the door, then stopped. My hands shook and my pulse skidded, every instinct screaming at me to run. To get out while I could. But Lucian had made me promise not to leave unless it was with him, so I didn’t try.
There were no windows to show me what was happening. All I could do was stand here and listen to the battle above my head.
More gunfire. A scream cut short. Another body hit the floor.
People who’d been breathing minutes ago were gone.
I pressed my palms to my thighs, trying to ground myself. My knees threatened to buckle. I dragged in a breath and forced another out.
My fingers curled into fists as I paced again, shorter steps now, faster. I tried to sit on the edge of the bed, then sprang back up, unable to stay still. Sweat broke out along my spine despite the chill in the room.
I wrapped my arms around myself, nails digging into my sleeves, teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached.
Run or trust.
Die or wait.
The gunfire didn’t slow.
This wasn’t a warning.
This was an execution.
I couldn’t stay in this room another second.
I rushed to the door, palms damp, heart hammering. My fingers hovered over the handle. Lucian’s voice echoed in my head—do not leave this room unless I come get you—but panic drowned it out.
Then the shots stopped.
Silence was sudden and absolute.
My shoulders sagged. I forced air into my lungs again, trying to get my body under control.
Okay. Okay.
This had to be a good sign, right?
I turned back toward the bed, legs shaky, telling myself to sit down. To wait. To trust him.
The explosion hit before I took a second step.
The blast ripped through the door with a sound that shredded my ears and punched the air out of my chest. Wood splintered and metal screamed. The door blew inward, slamming against the wall as debris sprayed across the room.
I scrambled back, tripping over the edge of the bed.
Two men charged through the smoke.
One wore a mask. The kind of man you saw on the news when ICE agents kicked in doors and dragged people out of their homes. A thug’s uniform. No badge. No name.
The other man stopped me cold.
My father.
Andrew Hayes stepped into the room as though he owned it.
Hatred twisted his face, raw and snarling. I’d never seen that expression on him before. Not once in my life. It hollowed something out in my chest.
“There you are,” he snapped. “Get over here.”
The masked man lunged for me.
I jumped onto the bed, boots sinking into the mattress, putting distance between us. The man swore and reached again.
“Leave me alone!” I screamed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
My father’s mouth curled. “Stop acting like a hysterical idiot.”
“What happened to you after Mom died?” I shouted back. “You’re a monster. You locked me away when I was just a kid—grieving—because it was easier than dealing with me!”
The masked man grabbed at my leg. I kicked free and bounced to the other side of the bed, heart racing.
“My mother was crushed by a slab of concrete meant for me!” I yelled. “A freak accident—and you turned it into a campaign story. You lied about her death for donations!”
“Enough!” my father barked. “You’ve embarrassed me. You may have cost me my Senate seat.”
The thug lunged again.
I jumped harder this time. When he climbed onto the bed after me, I slammed into the mattress with everything I had. His balance went and he stumbled, arms windmilling.
“Get down here!” my father shouted. “I’m taking you home. And then I’m shipping you somewhere you won’t escape so easily.”