Chapter 98 The Price of Admission
The steel service door gave way with a screech of tortured metal, rebounding against the concrete wall as Gavin and I burst into the room. For a split second, the world froze—a snapshot of a nightmare rendered in the harsh, flickering light of a single bare bulb.
My breath hitched, the air in my lungs turning to ice.
Mila was slumped against a damp cinderblock wall, her navy silk dress—the one I’d bought her to make her feel like a queen—torn at the shoulder and smeared with grime. Her head was lolling to the side, her eyes glassy and unfocused, darting around the room with a primal, drug-induced terror. In front of her, the stage was set: a camera on a tripod, a table topped with white powder, and a bottle of cheap grain alcohol.
And then there were the men. Two of them. One was adjusting the camera lens, while the other—a thick-necked man with a jagged scar across his knuckles—was reaching down to grab Mila’s chin, forcing her head back to face the light.
"Get your hands off her," I said.
It wasn't a shout. It was a low, guttural vibration that felt like it was tearing through my throat. The man with the scar looked up, a smirk playing on his lips that died the moment he saw the look in my eyes. He didn't see Nathaniel Salvatore, the Ivy League scholar. He saw a man who had officially run out of reasons to be civil.
"Who the hell are you?" the one by the camera barked, reaching into his jacket.
He never got the chance to pull whatever he was reaching for.
I moved with a speed I didn't know I possessed, the "Heir" vanishing and leaving only the hunter behind. I was across the room in three strides. I didn't lead with a question; I led with my fist. My knuckles connected with the scarred man’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of my momentum sending him flying backward into the table. The white powder erupted into a cloud, and the bottle of alcohol shattered, drenching him as he hit the floor.
Behind me, I heard the grunt of a struggle. Gavin had intercepted the second man, the lawyer’s son shedding his polished exterior as he tackled the guy into the tripod. The camera went down with a crash, the lens shattering into a thousand useless pieces. Gavin wasn't a fighter by trade, but he was a man of Alverstone protecting his own, and he was landing blows with a desperate, frantic energy.
But my focus was singular.
The man I’d hit scrambled to his feet, his face twisted in a mask of rage and blood. He lunged at me, swinging a heavy, unpracticed hook. I stepped inside the arc of his arm, my elbow connecting with his ribs, feeling the bone give way. I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. Every time I looked at Mila—every time I saw the way her hand was trembling as she tried to crawl away from the violence—my vision turned a deeper shade of red.
I grabbed him by the throat, slamming him back against the very wall where he’d trapped her. My fingers dug into his flesh, my heart hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated vengeance.
"You thought you could touch her?" I hissed, my voice a jagged edge of fury. "You thought you could use her as a pawn in some sick game?"
"It was just a job!" the man wheezed, his eyes bulging as he clawed at my wrists. "The girl—the blonde—she paid us!"
"I don't care who paid you," I snarled. I pulled him forward and slammed him back again, the back of his head hitting the concrete with a dull thud. "If you ever breathe her name again, if you even look in the direction of Brooklyn, I will make sure the rest of your life is spent looking over your shoulder."
I threw him aside like a piece of refuse. He collapsed in a heap near the shattered glass, groaning and clutching his shattered ribs. Across the room, Gavin had the other man pinned in a headlock, his tuxedo jacket torn down the seam, his breathing ragged.
"Nate," Gavin gasped, his eyes wide as he looked at me. "Nate, stop. We need to get her out of here before the others show up."
The word her acted like a cold bucket of water. I turned away from the wreckage of the men, my hands shaking—not from fear, but from the sheer volume of adrenaline still screaming through my veins.
I dropped to my knees beside Mila.
"Mila," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Mila, it’s me. It’s Nate. You’re safe. I’ve got you."
She flinched as I reached for her, her eyes wide and swimming with tears. The drug was clearly heavy in her system; she was looking at me but seeing ghosts. "Nate?" she slurred, her voice a tiny, fragile sound that broke my heart into a million pieces. "I... I tried to be... I tried to belong."
"You belong with me," I said, my chest aching as I pulled her into my arms. I wrapped my tuxedo jacket around her shoulders, shielding her from the sight of the room, from the powder, and from the men who had tried to ruin her. She felt so small, so cold.
I stood up, lifting her easily against my chest. She tucked her head into the hollow of my neck, her fingers clutching weakly at my shirt. I looked at Gavin, who was standing over the two groaning men, his face set in a grim mask of determination.
"Call my personal security," I told him, my voice steady now, cold and final. "Tell them to pick these two up. I don't want them in the hands of the campus police. Not yet. I want to know everything they were promised, and I want every copy of those photos destroyed."
"What about Scarlett?" Gavin asked, glancing toward the door.
I looked down at Mila, who was drifting back into an uneasy unconsciousness in my arms. The "Heir" might have been gone, but the Salvatore in me was just beginning to wake up.
"Scarlett Tate is about to learn that there are some people you don't touch," I said. "But right now, I'm taking Mila home."
I walked out of the storage room, stepping over the broken glass and the ruined plans of the elite. I didn't look back at the opulence of the Vellum Room as we passed the service exit. I didn't care about the Alpha Sigma Society, the endowment, or the board dinner I’d walked out on.
I had her. And the world was going to pay for making her cry.