58. Riley
Riley
W hite-hot spikes jab straight into my chest as I reach Mila.
“Mila!”
She’s limp and heavy, slumped in my arms like wet goddamn clay.
I snatch the champagne from Decker’s hand and splash it into her face.
“Wake up!” I bark, shaking her hard. “Mila!”
Then, just barely, her lashes flutter.
A soft groan escapes her lips. “Huh?”
The skull-masked freaks start circling—shirtless, painted, eyes locked like hyenas catching the scent of blood.
I flip Da’s knife open and— Jab—Jab—Swing ? —
Whoosh —the air whistles, sharp and vicious, as the blade slices through space an inch from bone.
“Back. The. Fuck. Off!”
One of them growls low, feral and animal like. But he doesn’t lunge at me. None of them do.
They’re enjoying this.
Toying with me.
Getting off on the fear.
Getting disgustingly, fucking hard.
“Leave her,” Decker calls out, calm as ever. It’s as if he’s commenting on a wine pairing, not a hostage.
“Her friend’s not going far. And this one will tire soon enough.”
That’s when Mila shifts. Just enough.
“Riley?” Her voice is thready, barely there. I haul her upright, arm cinched tight around her waist.
One step.
Then another.
“We’re leaving,” I announce, loud and sharp, adrenaline paving my way. Only now do I realize the circle of five has swelled into a full-blown crowd.
If there were women here before, they’re suddenly gone.
I want to ask what happened to them. Demand to know.
This is not the time, Riley.
Slow and steady, we move.
The wall of men parts like they’ve been told not to bite—yet. Decker lifts a hand in a slow, mocking gesture towards the back exit. Then, he booms, “Let them through.”
And, to my surprise, they do.
We make our way across the room, each step like dragging concrete, and force our way through the thick, metal door?—
Clank.
The slab crashes shut behind us, the sound sharp enough to bite.
The music’s gone. The air shifts—still and cold like something holding its breath.
Then— click. A heavy lock engages.
My stomach free-falls.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, shoving at the door with both hands.
The metal’s slick beneath my palms. No handle. No latch. Mila and I are dead-bolted in, with no way out.
“Hey!” I shout louder, fist pounding. “Hey! Goddamnit, let us out!”
I blink, straining to see—anything—but there’s nothing.
Just the sound of my own breath, too loud in the dark.
I feel it in the distance. That familiar tidal wave of fear. Building. Rushing in. About to crash through me.
“Riley?”
Mila’s voice cracks, so thin. So broken. Like it barely survived the trip from her throat to my ears.
And somehow, that alone manages to break through my own spiraling fear.
Maybe that’s how Kennedy did it. Stole her bravery from my terror. Built pain into armor. Pulled strength from nothing but thin air and fear.
I suck in a breath. Deep. Shaky. Sharp enough to hurt.
Or to kill.
I can do this.
I can big-sister the fuck out of this.
For Mila. For me. And for whatever fucking boogie man is waiting in the dark.
“We’re fine,” I say, even as my pulse slams against my ribs, fighting the dark pressing in from every side.
“We are?” Mila’s voice is barely a whisper.
I swallow hard, choke down the rising panic, and forge steel into my tone.
“Yes. We’re going to be fine.”
A spark flares in the dark. Then— light.
The breath I’d been pretending not to hold finally slips from my lungs.
A match, a candle. When my eyes adjust, I make out a face. All on the other side of the bars trapping us in. “Decker?”
“Fine?” His voice echoes, chilled with amusement. The flame catches his smirk. “Ah, no. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to be fine.”
The Irish accent’s thicker now. “The name’s Declan. And you, my dear,” he says, eyes skating over me, “are about to become the polar opposite of fine .”
“What do you want?” I snap.
His grin widens with sadistic glee. “You, Riley.”
My stomach knots. He wants me? I stumble back. “What?”
“I want you…to meet your fate.” He tosses two dresses onto the floor between us. Skimpy but elegant.
“I suggest you put those on.”
I square my jaw. “And if we don’t?”
His smile hardens.
“Then you’ll be stripped down and auctioned off naked.” His gaze drags to my throat. His brow pinches. “At least… one of you will,” he mutters, more to himself.
He glances at his watch. “You better hurry. The auction starts soon. I’d hate all the men to walk in if you weren’t fully dressed.”
Well. That’s not fucking happening.
I’ve still got my knife.
And if he just leans in—just a little closer—I could almost?—
BOOM.
The floor jolts beneath us. Dust rains from the ceiling in a slow, choking cloud.
And Da’s knife slips from my grip, hits the ground with a metallic clang , and skids out of reach.
Shit .
Mila yelps. I flinch, instinctively curling toward her.
Declan doesn’t even blink.
“What was that?” I demand, coughing, breath catching dust in my throat.
“That?” He sighs, pointing like I’ve just asked the dumbest question alive, his gaze dropping to my throat. “That would be your precious Dante D’Angelo.”
My pulse spikes hard. He said my Dante D’Angelo. Like, he knows. Knows that Dante cut the necklace off my neck. To save me.
Powerless, my knees buckle, nearly enough to cave. What if something happened to Dante? Because of me.
Because I was too wrapped up in slapping him and hating him and, fuck , wishing him dead to realize everything he did…was for me.
“What about him?” I ask, tears pricking my eyes. My voice barely makes it out. A whisper, scraped raw.
No, no, no. Nothing can happen to him. Not because of me.
His smirk curls back into place. “Well…” He leans in just enough. “That was him. Getting blown to fucking bits.”