Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Gabbi
Victor had been watching me differently all evening, his eyes lingering, his smirk sharper, his touch lingering on the rim of his glass as he drank.
I had spent days perfecting this game, balancing between trust and distance, making him believe I was falling into his world without ever actually stepping inside it.
But tonight, something had changed. I felt it in the way he moved, in the way the air between us had thickened, in the way he leaned back in his chair, legs spread, fingers tapping lazily against his knee as he studied me.
"You’ve done well so far," he murmured, voice like silk over a blade. "But now, I want more."
A slow chill crawled down my spine.
I forced a small, questioning smile, playing along. "More?"
Victor’s lips curled at the edges, and then he was standing, slow, deliberate.
The whiskey in my hand suddenly felt heavier as I kept it steady, my heart a careful, controlled rhythm beneath my ribs.
He crossed the space between us without hurry, like a man who had already decided the outcome before the game had even started.
I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. I kept my breathing even as he reached me, standing so close I could smell the whiskey on his breath, the faint traces of expensive cologne laced with the musk of sweat and smoke. His fingers lifted, brushing the side of my face, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
"You know what I mean," he murmured, his knuckles grazing my jaw as he let his fingers trail lower, ghosting over my pulse.
I swallowed the instinct to jerk away.
I had seen men like him before—powerful, arrogant, believing that everything they touched was theirs to claim.
I had spent my life exposing them, unraveling them in headlines and printed words.
But standing here now, with his breath warm against my cheek, his presence curling around me like a predator sizing up his prey—it felt different.
Dangerous.
His fingers traced the line of my throat, lingering just below my jaw. "I don’t think you understand how much I’ve been looking forward to this moment."
I gave a breathy, nervous laugh—not forced. Not fake. Real. "Victor?—"
His hand slid lower, down my arm, slow, like he was savoring the anticipation.
"You’re beautiful when you try to play tough," he murmured, voice dark with amusement.
His other hand lifted, brushing a strand of my hair away from my neck, his touch slow, deliberate.
He leaned in, his breath warm against my skin, inhaling like he was drinking me in.
Panic curled in my stomach, sharp and burning.
I had to keep control. Had to stay in control.
Victor exhaled softly, pressing his nose just below my ear, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there. "You smell like trouble," he whispered, his hand gripping my waist now, firm, possessive. "I like trouble."
My grip on the whiskey glass tightened, my pulse roaring in my ears.
He was too close. Too close.
I forced a small, nervous laugh, tilting my head slightly, not too eager, not too unwilling. "And what happens if I don’t like trouble?"
Victor chuckled, his lips grazing my skin in a way that made my stomach twist. "Then I suppose I’ll have to convince you."
He started to turn his face toward mine—too close, too real.
Gunfire exploded outside.
The whiskey glass slipped from my fingers, shattering against the floor. The moment shattered with it.
The sharp, deafening sound of bullets ripping through the air sent chaos slamming into the camp. Shouts erupted, boots pounding against the dirt. The alarm blared.
Victor jerked back, his hand going for his gun. My breath caught, my body frozen for half a second—too long.
Then, before I could react, the door burst open.
Bobby.
Everything happened fast.
Victor’s head snapped toward the doorway, his hand jerking toward the gun at his hip.
Bobby didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.
One shot.
Victor’s body jolted back, the bullet hitting him clean between the eyes. His smirk never even had time to fade.
Blood splattered against the chair, the floor, the walls. His body crumpled before it even registered what had happened. The whiskey bottle on the table tipped, amber liquid spilling across the wood, mixing with the blood pooling beneath him.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then—all hell broke loose.
The alarm screamed through the camp, echoing against the trees. Shouts erupted outside, boots pounding toward the cabin. The guards had heard the shot. They were coming.
Bobby didn’t stop moving. He was already pulling me toward the ground, shielding me as bullets ripped through the walls. Wood splintered, shattering into sharp shards as gunfire tore through the cabin.
"You okay?" Bobby’s voice was rough, urgent, right against my ear.
I nodded quickly, my breath ragged. "We need to go. Now."
Bobby’s grip tightened around my wrist. "We have to get to Liam."
My chest squeezed. Liam. We didn’t have time to fight our way through this camp. We had to run.
Bobby reloaded his gun, jaw tight, his body coiled like a spring about to snap. "On my signal, we move."
I nodded, gripping my own gun with shaking fingers. This was it.
Bobby exhaled sharply, then—"Go!"
We moved.
We ran.
Through the open door, through the chaos. The camp was alive now, men shouting, guns firing, alarms blaring. I barely registered the bodies dropping around us as Bobby shot without missing a step.
Bullets kicked up dirt at our feet, the air thick with smoke and shouts. A guard lunged toward me, his gun raised, but I was faster. I aimed, fired. He crumpled.
We pushed forward, weaving through the cabins, past the burning fires, toward the only thing that mattered.
Liam.
The storm had finally hit. And we had one chance to get out alive.