31. Freedom’s Price
Freedom’s Price
Naomi
T he teeth of the zip ties bite into my wrists as Tommy lunges at Micah, blade glinting under the harsh warehouse lights. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat thundering in my ears as I struggle to breathe.
Please God, not like this. Not when we’ve finally found each other.
The knife slices through empty air as Micah pivots away with unexpected grace for such a large man. His movements are measured, precise—nothing like the clumsy dodges of someone unfamiliar with violence.
“Getting slow in your old age, Hunt?” Tommy taunts even though there’s no truth to his words. His smile reveals teeth sharp and eager for blood.
Micah doesn’t respond. His focus is absolute, dark eyes tracking every subtle shift in Tommy’s posture.
I recognize this version of him—the enforcer, the protector, the man who navigates violence with professional detachment.
It’s a side of him I’ve glimpsed in fragments during our time together, but never witnessed in its full, terrible glory.
Tommy feints left before slashing right, the blade whistling as it cuts through air mere inches from Micah’s throat. My breath catches painfully in my chest, but Micah is already moving, sidestepping smoothly while delivering a punishing blow to Tommy’s kidney.
The impact makes a sickening sound—not the theatrical thwack from movies but something wetter. Tommy grunts, momentarily hunched, but recovers faster than I expect. He spins, knife extended in a wide arc that would have disemboweled Micah if it connected.
“I’m going to carve you up slow,” Tommy promises, voice dropping low. “Make sure you stay alive long enough to watch what comes next.”
His eyes flick toward me, and the naked hunger in his gaze makes bile rise in my throat.
I’ve seen that look before—in Lucas’s eyes when his control slipped, revealing the monster beneath the mask of normalcy.
That same proprietary lust that reduces women to flesh, to conquests, to things meant for breaking.
Micah’s expression darkens, a muscle jumping along his clenched jaw. His hands curl into massive fists that could easily crush Tommy’s windpipe, yet he holds himself in check, waiting for an opening rather than charging blindly.
They dance around each other, a deadly waltz of predators. Tommy is younger, perhaps faster, but Micah moves with the assurance from his experience. Each step is intentional. I can see his mind working behind those dark eyes, calculating angles and opportunities while he conserves energy.
When Tommy lunges again, Micah’s counterattack comes with brutal efficiency—a lightning-fast jab that connects with Tommy’s nose.
Cartilage crunches, blood spraying in a fine mist. Tommy staggers back, momentarily stunned, and Micah presses his advantage.
A vicious uppercut lifts Tommy partially off his feet, followed by a blow to the stomach that doubles him over.
For a brief, shining moment, I believe it might end here—Micah triumphant, Tommy neutralized. A swift conclusion to this nightmare. But Tommy has survived in this brutal world too long to fall so easily. As Micah closes in, Tommy slashes upward with unexpected speed.
The knife catches Micah’s forearm, slicing through his jacket sleeve. I can’t tell from my angle how deep the cut goes, but red immediately darkens the fabric. Micah doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even acknowledge the wound—just pivots away, recalibrating.
“First blood by my hand,” Tommy grins, flicking crimson droplets from his blade onto the concrete floor. “There’ll be more before we’re done.”
Tommy advances again, gaining confidence, his blade weaving hypnotic patterns through the air.
“You know what your problem is, Hunt? You got soft. Started thinking with your dick instead of your head.” His gaze slides to me again, lingering on my body with insulting thoroughness.
“Though looking at your pretty little piece there, can’t say I blame you. Bet she’s worth the trouble.”
Micah’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his stance—a subtle coiling of muscles like a spring compressing. Tommy mistakes this stillness for hesitation and presses forward, knife leading.
The attack never lands. Micah explodes into movement, catching Tommy’s knife hand at the wrist and driving his other fist into Tommy’s throat with punishing force. Tommy chokes, eyes bulging, but manages to wrench free before Micah can disarm him.
They separate again, circling. Tommy massages his throat, breath coming in ragged gasps, while Micah maintains that deadly calm. Blood still seeps from the cut on his arm, but he shows no sign of weakening.
“You’re dead, Hunt,” Tommy wheezes. “Just don’t know it yet.”
“Talk less. Fight more.” Micah’s voice is dangerous. It’s the same tone he uses when he wants absolute compliance—low, commanding, brooking no resistance.
Tommy charges with renewed fury, slashing wildly now, technique abandoned in favor of overwhelming aggression. It’s a desperate strategy but not without merit. The confined space between us and the surrounding guards limits Micah’s mobility, forcing Micah to block attacks he might otherwise avoid.
A second cut opens across Micah’s shoulder, then a third along his ribs—shallow wounds, but they add up. Blood darkens his shirt in spreading patches. My heart clenches at each new injury, evidence he’s not superhuman.
Yet for every wound Tommy inflicts, Micah exacts a heavier toll. A crushing blow to Tommy’s knee makes him stumble. A precisely targeted strike to his floating ribs produces an audible crack. Blood pours from Tommy’s broken nose, spattering across the concrete with each labored breath.
“You’re good.” Tommy acknowledges, spitting a mouthful of blood. “Better than I gave you credit for. But I’m still going to kill you, old man. After I’ll take my time with your girl. She’s going to scream real pretty for you one last time when I fuck her ass.”
Tommy doesn’t see the danger until it’s too late.
Micah drives forward with terrifying speed, absorbing a slash across his chest without slowing, closing the distance before Tommy can retreat.
His massive hands lock around Tommy’s arm, the one holding the knife, twisting with such brutal force that bones snap like kindling.
Tommy’s scream echoes through the warehouse as the knife clatters to the floor. Micah doesn’t pause. He delivers a punishing blow to Tommy’s sternum, driving the breath from his lungs, followed by a strike to his temple. Tommy drops to his knees.
Calculation swirls in Micah’s eyes as he prepares to deliver a final, fatal blow.
Tommy sees it too. With the desperation of a cornered animal, he lurches sideways—not away from Micah, but toward me.
My body goes rigid with terror as Tommy scrambles behind my chair, his movements frantic but purposeful. Before Micah can intercept him, he’s retrieved his knife from the floor and presses the cold metal against my throat.
“That’s enough.” Tommy shouts, his voice raw with pain and rage. His broken arm hangs uselessly at his side, but his other hand holds the blade with unwavering steadiness against my jugular. “One more step and I open her throat.”
Micah freezes, his massive body suddenly still.
For the first time tonight—perhaps for the first time since I’ve known him—naked fear torments in his dark eyes.
Not for himself, not for the wounds he has sustained, but for me.
Something warm and painful blooms in my chest despite the knife at my throat.
“That’s better.” Tommy pants, blood bubbling from his broken nose with each word. “Now we understand each other.”
I feel his breath hot against my ear, smell copper and sweat and something chemical that might be drug residue.
My skin crawls with revulsion, but I force myself to remain absolutely motionless.
The blade is sharp enough that even the subtle movement of my breathing creates a wire-thin line of pain across my throat.
“Here’s what happens next,” Tommy says, gaining confidence at his advantage.
“You’re going to kneel down, nice and slow.
Then my boys are going to secure you while I have some fun with your girl here.
” His face presses close to my head, his lips brushing against my hair.
“Would you prefer I cut her throat instead? Because that can be arranged. Your choice.”
Micah’s expression transforms into something I barely recognize—rage and fear battling for dominance, layered with a desperate calculation as he searches for options that don’t exist. The warehouse has gone deathly quiet, even Francesca doesn’t make a sound as she watches from the shadows as if observing a fascinating experiment.
“Don’t do this,” Micah says, his voice impossibly calm despite the storm building behind his eyes. “This is between us. Let her go, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Tommy laughs, the sound ugly and wet with blood.
“What I want is to make you suffer, old man. What I want is for you to see what I’m going to do to her before we put you both in the ground.
” Somehow he manages to twist his fingers in my hair, finding just enough strength in his broken arm, yanking my head back to expose more of my throat to the blade.
“Or should I keep her. Fuck her every day in your honor. What do you think about that, sweetness?”
He breathes the last words directly against my ear, his lips brushing my skin in a grotesque parody of intimacy that makes me want to scream. But I don’t. Can’t. The slightest movement might be my last.
“Last chance, Hunt,” Tommy calls out. “On your knees, or I start cutting.”
To prove his point, he increases pressure on the blade. I feel something warm trickle down my neck—blood, my blood—and can’t contain the whimper that escapes my throat.