Chapter Twenty-Five
On Monday, Sarah decides to outfit me with overseeing a new project.
Another profile, this time on a supermodel who crashed into the modeling scene and swept the world by surprise with her beauty and innovation.
She’s launching a new high-fashion line, and Sarah wants the three Staff Writers I oversee to dig into her, interview her, and do a profile.
I spend all of my workday on Monday in meetings, coordinating interview times with the model’s agent and PR manager, breaking the project down into bite-sized pieces, and dealing with headache after goddamn headache.
Annalise is extremely useful and wrangles the two other writers into line while I divvy up the workload.
I think Sarah’s still mad at me for pushing back on the Killian profile, even though it’s been weeks. Or maybe she noticed I spend a lot of my workday writing or editing my novel. If it’s the latter, she hasn’t brought anything up… but, for now, I just have to endure the bullshit.
When I make my way toward the subway, I see that there are several homeless guys getting drunk in front of the staircase…
which means that option for getting home is out.
I pull my phone out of my pocket to order an uber…
only to find it’s dead. A car zooms by, honking for no reason like it has to disturb a snippet of quiet.
There are no cabs out and about, and I need to get home and try to get a full night’s sleep… so I start trudging over the city blocks. The next-closest subway station is 15 blocks away—usually, that’d take me 20 minutes, but I’m too tired to walk fast.
People call New York the city that never sleeps—and in some parts, it is. Times Square is lit up 24/7, with constant foot traffic at all hours of the day or night… but my office isn’t in that area. It’s downtown Manhattan, which gets very quiet and very uncomfortable at night.
I should start carrying pepper spray with me again. In the dead of night, every shadow looks like it houses unspeakable horrors, and every homeless person I pass makes me increasingly nervous and uncomfortable.
Damn Killian. If I hadn’t met him, I wouldn’t be so jumpy, and I wouldn’t be so exhausted. My time in his orbit feels like a fever dream, and right now, I can’t wait for it to end. I can’t wait to be able to sleep through the night again…
A hand wraps around my arm, yanking me into a dark alleyway.
My lips part to release a piercing scream, but a hand covers my mouth, and my body’s slammed up against a grimy stone wall.
A forearm presses to my throat, belonging to a bulky man wearing a ski mask.
Panic claws its way up my throat, and I can hear each beat of my racing heart in my ear.
“Purse,” a gritty, unpleasant voice says, scraping over my skin like a cheese grater. “Money and phone. Hand it over.”
I drop my purse to the alleyway floor, trembling all over. I’m not going to play a hero; I’ve been mugged once before, when I was much younger, and I learned then that negotiating and talking doesn’t reap any fruits. It only aggravates the mugger and makes things worse for the victim.
The man’s forearm presses hard against my windpipe, and I whimper in sheer terror.
“Check her purse,” he calls over her shoulder. “Let’s see how much the bitch is worth.”
Not very much at all. I have a good salary, but in a city as expensive as New York, six figures is the bare minimum to live a halfway decent life.
My purse is from an off-brand label, as is my wallet, and I don’t carry more than twenty dollars in cash with me at any given time.
My phone model is from years ago, so that won’t make them much either, and I left my personal laptop at home today.
I see a flash of movement behind the man holding me against the wall, just before another guy picks up my purse, turns it over, and dumps the contents on the filth-covered uneven pavement.
“Phone,” the one holding me says. His forearm lifts from my neck, replaced with a cold steel blade. A whimper claws its way up my throat, and a tear leaks from my eye.
Just comply, Lyra. Comply, and they’ll leave you alone.
I reach a shaking hand into the pocket of my slacks, withdrawing my iPhone and holding it up. The other guy—also wearing a ski mask—rips it from my hand.
“Password,” the one holding me demands. “And don’t fuckin’ bother screaming. Ain’t nobody around to hear you.”
“128437,” I whisper, my voice shaking. Ski Mask One—the man pressing a sharp knife to my throat—throws a glance over his shoulder. “Does it work?”
After a pause, the other one says, “Yup.”
“Good.” Ski Mask One turns back to me, and I feel his muddy eyes rake a disgusting gaze over me.
“You’re a pretty one, aren’t ya?” he leans closer, and I close my eyes, turning my head away.
My panic triples as he raises his knife to my cheek, pressing the cold steel right under my eye. “How about we have some fun?”
No, no, no, no, no. Being forced by Killian is one thing, and it’s something I’ve come to terms with. In an alleyway, with men who are probably riddled with STD’s… I’d rather die.
“Please let me go,” I whimper, not bothering to conjure any bravado. “I—I won’t tell anyo—”
Ski Mask One cuts me off with a cruel chuckle. His free hand drops to my pants, fingers hooking over the waist. “You can tell whoever the fuck you want. Doesn’t mean we’ll be found.” He gives a sharp tug, and a tearing noise sounds. My pants loosen.
That’s when my survival instincts overcome my better sense, and I start fighting in earnest. I lift up my knee with all my force to relieve the asshole of his family jewels; the knife cuts into my cheek, right under my eye.
Ski Mask One doubles over with a roar, and I release an ear piercing scream.
The noise cuts off when Ski Mask Two punches me in the stomach with such force, it knocks all the breath out of me. I let out a pathetic wheeze, dropping to my knees and clutching my abdomen.
The mouth of the alleyway is just in front of me.
I can get away. I know I can. I crawl a step forward, but Ski Mask One recovers quicker than I can and jerks on my ankle, making pain radiate through my leg and flattening me on the ground.
He flips me over and punches me again in the stomach; this time, I nearly pass out.
His eyes are manic now, absolutely furious. He pins my arms above my head, and I scream again—he wraps a hand around my throat.
“Fucking bitch,” he spits. “I’ll show you—”
He pauses when a shout comes from Ski Mask Two, the pressure on my throat loosening.
He turns around, and a loud bang sounds.
Time slows to a crawl as his blood splatters across my face, and a pitiful cry leaves my lips.
The spray is warm, thick, and the horrible sensation is something I’ll never be fortunate enough to forget.
I blink when I see a bullet hole in his temple.
His eyes glaze over, any hint of life leaving them.
My vision’s blurry, my eyes are watering from agony, and I’m shaking like a sapling in a storm.
His weight crashes down on top of me, flattening me completely.
I try to shove him off, but he’s too heavy.
A heartbeat later, he’s dragged off of me. A pair of hands clasp my shoulders, and I screech again, fighting instinctually, shoving and clawing.
“Lyra—Lyra!” A voice roars. A familiar gritty voice.
My eyes crack open.
Locke.
Killian’s guard dog leans over me, shaking me furiously. He stops when I quit fighting him, and his dark eyes do a cold, analytical sweep of me.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
I don’t respond, numb with shock. My brain is trying and failing to process what just happened—to process the dead body beside me.
Locke gives me another shake. “Are you hurt?”
“I… I d-don’t think so,” I wheeze, my voice scratchy. My abdomen is in agony and my cheek stings, but nothing’s broken.
“Good.” Locke shakes his head, making the tattoos on his neck dance across his skin. “This is gonna be a fuckin’ nightmare,” he mutters to himself. “Can you walk?”
I brace my palms on the filthy ground and slowly push myself into a crouch. Locke keeps his hands on my shoulders, lifting me up to a stand. I sway, but I’m not dead or dying, which is more than I can say for my attackers.
A low moan comes from behind Locke’s shoulders. My eyes move to Ski Mask Two, who’s curled up in a fetal position, whimpering.
“Y-you k—” I can’t even get the word out. There’s a corpse on the ground, and another man who I suspect will shortly become a corpse.
“Don’t worry about that,” Locke says tonelessly.
He holds my arm and starts steering me out of the alleyway.
There’s a dark BMW idling on the curb just in front of the sidewalk, the engine still humming.
Locke walks me to it, opens the door, and puts me inside.
As soon as my body connects with buttery leather, all the strength seeps out of me in one go.
A sob catches in my throat as he closes the door behind me.
I think I’m in shock. I feel cold and hot at the same time, chilled to my very bones yet feverish.
I was almost raped in an alleyway.
Killian’s guard dog came out of nowhere and saved me.
And now I’m in Locke’s—Killian’s?—car.
I need to get out of here. Locke just put a bullet in someone’s head; I can’t stick around to see what he’ll do to me next. I’m a witness, and I know how loose ends are approached in this city.
They usually don’t live to see the next sunrise.
I lunge toward the door and yank on the handle, but it’s locked. Child-locks.
The trunk opens, and a weight thuds into the car. I don’t even want to know what it is. I reach toward the front of the car, trying to click off the childlocks, but before I can succeed, the driver’s door opens.
“Don’t.” It’s only a single word, but the dark authority Locke carries makes me freeze. “Sit down and calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”