Chapter 223
Aria's POV
The night air pressed heavy against my skin as rough hands shoved me into the back of another SUV. My shoulder throbbed where the bullet had torn through flesh, the fever making everything around me waver like a mirage. They'd blindfolded me, but I could feel us moving away from the stucco house, the vehicle bumping along what seemed to be increasingly remote roads.
"The boss said once we get her on the yacht, we get the rest of the money," the driver—Ricardo, I remembered—said in accented English. "By tomorrow, she'll be in international waters."
My heart plummeted. International waters meant no jurisdiction, no rescue, no hope. I shifted slightly, feeling the edges of a sharp metal piece beneath the seat cushion. While they talked, I carefully maneuvered my bound hands to reach it, working the plastic zip ties against its edge in rhythmic, desperate motions.
I counted turns, trying to map our journey in my mind. Right turn, straight for approximately five minutes, left turn onto a rougher road. Each bump sent agony shooting through my wounded shoulder, but I focused on memorizing our path, clinging to any detail that might help me escape.
The SUV slowed suddenly, pulling off onto what felt like a dirt path. The engine cut off, and an eerie silence descended.
"We've got time before the pickup," the man with the crucifix necklace said, his voice thick with something that made my skin crawl. "Why don't we have some fun first?"
"Pretty face like that," Ricardo agreed, turning around. I could feel his gaze even through my blindfold. "Besides, where she's going will be much worse than anything we do."
I forced myself to breathe steadily, fighting the rising panic. The zip tie was beginning to fray against the metal edge, but not quickly enough.
"I can give you a million dollars in cash," I said, my voice remarkably calm despite the terror flooding my veins. "Right now. Just let me walk away."
A harsh laugh came from the passenger seat. "Too late for that, sweetheart. La rubia was very specific about what happens to you."
I heard the doors open, felt the night air rush in. One of them reached for me, his fingers brushing against my arm. In that moment, a blinding flash of headlights swept across the SUV's interior, followed by the deafening crunch of metal against metal. Our vehicle lurched sideways, flipping onto its side with a sickening screech.
Glass shattered around me. The impact had snapped my loosened zip ties, and I scrambled desperately, crawling through the broken window. My shoulder screamed in protest as I dragged myself across sharp fragments, blood soaking through my shirt anew.
Gunshots cracked through the air. Men shouted in Spanish and English. I stumbled to my feet, tearing off the blindfold, trying to orient myself in the chaos. Trees loomed on all sides—we were in some kind of forest clearing. I turned to run, only to be yanked backward by a strong arm.
I whirled around, terror surging through me, and found myself staring into familiar gray eyes that gleamed like steel in the moonlight.
"Did you think that amateur stunt would be enough to kill me?" Devon's voice was ice cold, but his arm around me was steady. "You're incredibly naive, Aria."
Only then did I notice the bloodstain spreading across his white shirt—he'd been hit. And yet here he was, standing like a fortress between me and the gunfire.
"I thought—" My voice broke as tears welled up unbidden. "I thought I'd never see you again."
Devon didn't respond. Instead, he pulled me against his chest, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe, as though afraid I might vanish if he loosened his grip. Behind us, I could hear his security team securing the area, subduing Ricardo and his partner.
"Ms. Harper needs medical attention," Devon called out, his voice betraying no emotion, though his fingers trembled slightly against my back. "And get that filth out of my sight."
He guided me toward a Range Rover idling nearby, its headlights illuminating the wreckage of the SUV. Once inside, Devon carefully examined my shoulder, his face tightening at the sight of the infected wound.
"You need antibiotics," he said clinically, though a muscle jumped in his jaw. "The infection is spreading."
He reached into a compartment and pulled out a first aid kit, working methodically to clean and rebandage my shoulder. I watched his face—the focused eyes, the tight line of his mouth, the barely contained fury that simmered beneath his controlled exterior.
"Don't look at me like that," he muttered, not meeting my gaze. "We'll talk about your reckless solo mission when we get back to New York."
I leaned against him, inhaling his familiar scent—cologne mingled with something uniquely Devon—and felt safety wash over me for the first time in days.
"Okay," I whispered. "Whatever you say."
Devon made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a growl. "You should have learned your lesson after the yacht incident. You're dangerously impulsive."
I smiled weakly, fatigue crashing over me in waves. "I knew you wouldn't give up on me."
Something in my voice—the utter certainty of it—made Devon's fingers pause momentarily as he finished taping the bandage. He didn't respond, but his hand lingered on my uninjured shoulder, the touch gentler than his words suggested.
Outside, his security team loaded the subdued men into another vehicle. Devon made a call, speaking in clipped sentences about "cleaning up" and "no traces." When he finished, he turned back to me, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
"Rest," he commanded, helping me recline the seat. "We have a long drive ahead before we can get you proper medical attention."
As the Range Rover pulled away from the scene, I found myself drifting between consciousness and darkness. Through half-closed eyes, I watched Devon's profile, illuminated by occasional passing lights. His face remained impassive, but every few minutes, his eyes would flick toward me, checking, ensuring I was still there, still breathing.
In my fever-induced haze, I thought I felt his fingers brush against mine, heard him murmur something that sounded like "I've got you." But perhaps that was just delirium, a wishful fabrication of my feverish mind.
The last thing I remembered before surrendering to exhaustion was Devon's voice, uncharacteristically soft, saying, "Stay with me, Aria. Just stay with me."