Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Ingrid
Brandon’s grip was iron strong, pinning me against the rough stone wall. I pushed back—wild, uncoordinated movements through blind panic—but he only leaned more into me. A low chuckle vibrated against my collarbone.
“Didn’t think you’d be much of a fighter. Makes this more fun.” He groaned, the sound dripping with a dark, twisted amusement that made my stomach turn.
My breath hitched, coming in shallow gasps. “W-what do you want from me?” I asked. My voice was a whisper, barely audible over the distant thud of the club’s bass.
“I think it’s a bit obvious what I’ve always wanted from you, pretty girl.”
I froze as his hand began a slow, possessive crawl over my waist. When his fingers dug into my hip, tightening until it hurt, I winced and shook my head in a desperate plea.
“Please... Please let me go.”
“Already begging? We haven’t even gotten started, babydoll,” he murmured against my ear. His breath was hot, stinking of expensive bourbon. I tried to shove against his chest once again, but he was a mountain of muscle, towering over me.
I had known Brandon wasn’t a good man. Tristian wouldn’t have just laid into him for no reason. But I never imagined he would go this far.
My mind flashed to Tristian. He was the only person I’d ever allowed into my space, into my soul. We hadn’t even spoken about the other night—the raw, trauma-induced sex that had served as our only escape from a world that wanted to control us. It was tender. It was real.
Now Brandon was tainting that memory. Fresh tears burned my eyes as I shoved at him, but I was trembling so hard I could barely move him.
When I felt Brandon’s mouth, wet and demanding, press against the sensitive skin of my neck, the panic settled deeper. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I had only come here to find my sister.
I felt utterly powerless. I knew this feeling. I’d spent my whole life in it, under my father’s hands, in that house, always waiting to be saved. Camila had saved me. Abuelita had saved me. Tristian had saved me. I was too weak to stop him.
Tonight was no different. The last bit of fight drained out of me, replaced by a hollow, cold resignation. All I could ever do was be rescued.
Brandon’s hands slid lower, and my cries turned to dull whimpers—the same sound I used to make when I accepted my fate under my father’s hand.
I wish Tristian was here. He had saved me from my father, but he wasn’t here now. I was alone. I was helpless.
I’m so weak. So, so weak.
I should have stayed at Tristian’s apartment. I should have stayed with him. I should have told the girls I couldn’t make it.
There was no one here to save me but myself. And I was too weak to save myself.
There was no one here to save me but myself.
The thought hit me again, cutting through the static of my fear. Brandon’s hands were groping me shamelessly, his mouth still glued to my neck. He was so confident in my submission, so certain of my weakness, that he had grown careless.
I took a steadying breath. My hands were too weak to push him off, but my legs... I had spent a lifetime running; surely I could do more than that.
I drew my leg back slowly, inch by inch, creating a pocket of space while he was distracted by his own depravity.
I closed my eyes, prayed to a God I wasn’t sure listened, and drove my knee upward with every ounce of strength I possessed.
The impact was solid. Brandon’s hands vanished instantly as he recoiled, doubling over.
“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”
I stared at him, wide-eyed, my heart hammering against my ribs. I felt paralyzed, watching him writhe on the dirty pavement in genuine agony. I couldn’t believe I had actually done it.
The adrenaline hit fast and hot. My feet throbbed, my palms were slick, my mouth dry—but the paralysis broke. I took a few stumbling steps back, my heels digging painfully into the balls of my feet. Brandon was already starting to sit up, his face twisted with rage.
I needed to do the one thing I had never been fast enough to do with my father. I needed to run.
As Brandon started to sit, his face contorted in a mask of pure, murderous rage, I kicked off my heels. I scooped them up, my fingers trembling as my feet burned against the gravel. His eyes locked onto mine.
“You’re going to wish you never did that—FUCK!”
I acted on pure instinct, hurled one of my heels right into his face at full force. If he’d been sober, he would’ve easily dodged it. But drunk, he was too slow, and the heel smashed across his forehead, the point catching his eye before he could close it.
I didn’t wait to see the damage. I hurled the second shoe with everything I had, then bolted.
“You little bitch!” Brandon roared behind me.
My bare feet slapped against the cold pavement. Footsteps began to thud behind me immediately. But I didn’t look back. I ran faster than I ever had in my life, my lungs burning, the neon lights of the strip blurring into streaks of pink and blue.
The Obsidian was ahead. The bouncer was distracted, leaning in to talk to a group of girls.
I didn’t slow; I dove past him, slipping into the dark, pulsating heat of the club in a blind, unthinking panic.
I should have stopped. I should have screamed for help.
But the adrenaline was pushing me to put as much distance between myself and Brandon as possible.
I glanced over my shoulder. Brandon was already through the door, his eyes locked onto me with terrifying focus.
I shoved through the crowd, dodging sweaty bodies and spilled drinks, and scrambled toward the VIP staircase.
It was a desperate, final attempt to get away, and probably the worst possible place to run—but I had to do something, otherwise he’d be on me again, he would—
I was halfway up the stairs when a hand clamped around my ankle. I let out a sharp yelp as I was jerked backward, my chin hitting the carpeted step hard.
“You’re not getting away that easily,” Brandon growled, his voice a low vibration of malice.
I kicked out desperately.
My foot landed squarely in his face.
He recoiled with a grunt.
I scrambled up, my heart in my throat as I ran again.
I rounded the top of the stairs and slammed into something solid. It felt like a brick wall. Hands shot out, steadying me—and before I could scream, I was pulled into a chest that felt like home. The scent hit me before I even looked up.
I let out a shaky breath, leaning into the safe, warm embrace.
My eyes traveled up to meet Tristian’s. He looked stunned, his gaze sweeping over me—my tear-streaked face, my wild hair, my bare, swollen feet.
He didn’t say a word, but I felt his body go rigid as he processed my state.
I clung to him, my fingers digging into his jacket as footsteps pounded on the stairs behind me.
Tristian looked up over my shoulder. His eyes darkened, a predatory stillness settling over him as he locked eyes on Brandon.
Brandon was livid, his nose bloodied and his clothes disheveled. But as I leaned into Tristian, my heart rate finally beginning to slow, a realization washed over me.
I had stood up for myself. I had been strong enough. I had kneed him, thrown my shoes, run. I hadn’t been able to stop my father, but I had stopped this.
I felt a sob of pure, cathartic relief bubble up.
Tristian, meanwhile, vibrated with a quiet, lethal anger, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might snap. He looked ready to tear Brandon apart, and for the first time, the thought didn’t scare me.
More footsteps approached from the VIP lounge. Darragh appeared, looking between me behind Tristian and the man on the stairs. Putting two and two together, the Irishman gave me a quick once-over before his gaze landed fixed on Brandon.
Brandon looked like a deer in headlights. The rage had drained from his face, replaced by utter fear.
Tristian’s grip on me tightened, his knuckles white.
Darragh just ran a hand over his face, looking more tired than surprised. He shook his head, his voice dripping with disdain.
“You fuckin’ idiot.”