Chapter 170 Sold

Chapter 170 Sold
Lily

The farther we walked, the brighter it became.

The damp concrete beneath our feet slowly gave way to packed dirt, then broken gravel as daylight filtered through the mouth of the tunnel ahead.

Fresh air.

I could smell salt. The ocean. Smoke. Burning fuel.

We were close to the docks again.

The man carrying me adjusted his grip with an annoyed grunt. "You weigh more than you look."

I rolled my eyes despite the pounding in my head. "Maybe you're just weak."

He barked out a laugh. "I like this one."

Rourke smiled without looking back. "So does my employer."

My stomach twisted.

Employer.

Not buyer.

Employer.

The realization finally settled in.

He wasn't bluffing. He really planned on selling me. Like one of the girls. Like a fucking object. Like I was another line in that goddamn ledger.

My breathing quickened.

No. No. No.

I wasn't leaving with them. Not alive.

The tunnel opened into the back lot behind Warehouse Four.

The burning docks lit the sky orange. Smoke rolled overhead in thick waves. Gunfire echoed somewhere in the distance. The battle was still raging.

Rourke stopped. "So." He turned toward me. "Welcome to your new life."

The man carrying me finally lowered me onto my feet.

My injured leg buckled immediately again. Pain shot up my thigh.

I nearly hit the ground. He caught my arm. "Easy."

His mistake.

My hand drifted instinctively toward my boot.

The knife Caleb had insisted I always carry.

Always.

"Never leave home without a blade," he'd said. "Even if you think you'll never need it."

Turns out... He'd been right. Again.

The man's attention shifted toward Rourke for half a second.

That was all I needed.

The blade slid free without a sound. One movement. Fast. Clean.

The knife drove upward beneath his ribs.

His eyes went wide. "What—"

I yanked the knife free. He staggered back, clutching his side. I didn’t hesitate. I slammed my shoulder into his chest, sending him sprawling onto the gravel. He didn’t get back up.

Shouts erupted behind me.

“Grab her!”

“Shit!”

“I’ve got her!”

“Move!”

I moved first.

The second man lunged. I ducked, my injured leg screaming, but the knife flashed. He yelped, stumbling backward, blood blossoming across his sleeve as he dropped his weapon.

The third grabbed me around the waist. I smashed the back of my head into his face. He cursed, grip loosening, and I twisted free... barely.

Everything hurt. My lungs burned. My vision blurred. But I kept moving. I wouldn’t be caged again. Not today. Not ever.

Rourke watched from a safe distance, hands clasped behind his back, eyes gleaming with interest.

“You see?” he called, almost admiring. “I told you.”

I spun, panting. “Go to hell.”

“I imagine I will. But not today,” he answered, smile never shifting.

The fourth man rushed me, bigger, heavier, a wall of muscle. He hit me like a freight train. The knife flew from my hand as we crashed into the gravel.

The impact knocked the air from my lungs. His forearm jammed across my throat, pinning me. I clawed at his wrist, desperate, but he was too strong.

I drove my knee upward. He grunted but didn’t release me. The edges of my vision darkened. Rourke’s voice floated over the struggle, cold and pitiless. “I warned you. You simply aren’t going to win.”

I swung my elbow into the man’s jaw. Once. Twice. Three times. He barely flinched. My strength was fading, my injured leg useless beneath me, the world narrowing to a tunnel of pain and panic.

Then... a shotgun barked, deafening in the open lot.

The man pinning me jerked violently. His weight shifted. Another blast thundered. Someone screamed. The pressure vanished from my throat.

I rolled onto my side, coughing so hard my ribs screamed. Boots pounded across the gravel. More shots. I looked up through the smoke and dust.

Lucian.

He strode from the haze like an avenging shadow, shotgun tucked into his shoulder, face carved from stone. One blast, another man dropped. He worked the action, never breaking stride. Boom. A third man crumpled by the loading dock.

The last of Rourke’s men turned too late. Lucian closed the gap, slammed the shotgun’s stock into the man’s face, then finished him with a final, brutal shot.

The yard fell suddenly, eerily silent... broken only by my ragged breath.

Relief and gratitude surged through me. “Lucian—!”

Then I saw him. Rourke. He hadn’t run. He hadn’t fought. He’d melted into the smoke, circling behind.

My heart froze. “Lucian!” I tried to scream, but my voice was shredded.

Lucian turned, just enough.

Behind him, Rourke slipped from the swirling smoke, a combat knife gleaming in his hand.

“No!” I pushed myself upright, but my injured leg gave out. I fell again, sprawling on the gravel.

“LOOK OUT!”

Too late.

Rourke drove the knife forward, both hands braced. The blade punched through Lucian’s back, just beneath the shoulder blade.

Lucian’s body arched, breath vanishing in a strangled gasp.

The knife slid deeper, the tip bursting from beneath his ribs. Lucian tried to cry out, but no sound came, only a wet gasp.

His shotgun slid from his hands, clattering to the ground.

Time stalled.

Rourke leaned close, whispering something I couldn’t hear. Then, with a vicious jerk, he yanked the blade free.

Lucian staggered, clutching his side as blood spread rapidly across his cut. He tried for another breath. Only a bubbling gasp escaped.

My world spun.

“LUCIAN!”