Chapter 27
Emily Windsor's POV
Lawrence's words slithered over my skin like a viscous snake, triggering a wave of nausea and revulsion that crawled up my spine.
My hands clenched into fists on my lap, nails digging crescents into my palms. He kept laughing, that handsome face twisted into something grotesque by his vile desire.
He actually thought he'd found my weakness. Thought he could dangle my grandmother's murder over my head and I'd just… submit.
I looked at him, and the fury burning in my chest consumed every ounce of fear and calculation.
Slowly, I curled my lips into a cold smile. Before Lawrence could register what was happening, I grabbed the untouched glass of whiskey in front of me and, with a flick of my wrist, hurled the entire contents—amber liquid and ice cubes alike—directly into his smug face.
"You want me to sleep with you?" My voice was ice. "In your next life, maybe."
The liquor streamed down his stunned face, ice cubes sliding off his expensive silk shirt, leaving him drenched and humiliated.
The raucous laughter in the VIP room died instantly. Everyone froze, shocked by my sudden defiance.
Lawrence's smile vanished. Rage flooded his features, his pretty-boy face contorting into something monstrous. He wiped his face roughly, those peach-blossom eyes now devoid of amusement—only vicious fury remained.
"Ungrateful bitch!" he roared, gesturing sharply to his lackeys. "Grab her! I'm going to make her beg for mercy today. I'll make her wish she was dead!"
Two men lunged toward me with predatory grins.
I shot to my feet, snatching an empty bottle from the table. Without hesitation, I swung it hard at the nearest thug's head.
The glass shattered against his skull. He screamed, clutching his bleeding head as he collapsed.
Before I could react, the second man circled behind me and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking me backward with brutal force.
Pain exploded across my scalp—sharp, tearing. I cried out, the broken bottle slipping from my grip and clattering to the floor.
He shoved me down onto the sofa, pinning me there.
Lawrence approached, towering over me with savage satisfaction twisting his features.
He crouched down, gripping my chin roughly, his smile cruel. "Miss Windsor, you've got quite the temper. Let's see if you're just as stubborn when I break you."
His hand moved to the strap of my dress, fingers hooking under the fabric. I thrashed, but it was useless.
Just as despair threatened to swallow me whole, the door exploded inward with a deafening crash.
The entire room shook.
A tall, imposing silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the harsh corridor light. The figure radiated a lethal, wintry fury that sucked the air from the room.
Luke.
Behind him stood a wall of men in black suits, flooding into the room like a dark tide. Within seconds, Lawrence's cronies were subdued—efficiently, brutally. The sounds of muffled groans and dislocating joints punctuated the sudden chaos.
In mere moments, the men who'd been so arrogant seconds ago were writhing on the floor.
Lawrence's face went ashen. He forgot to release my chin.
Luke's gaze cut past him, landing on me—on my torn dress, my disheveled state.
He moved forward, each footstep silent on the carpet, yet it felt like he was stepping on everyone's hearts.
"Let. Her. Go."
His voice was death itself.
Lawrence flinched, instinctively releasing me.
Before he could blink, Luke's fist connected with his face in a devastating blow. Lawrence flew backward, slamming into the wall with a sickening thud.
"Luke… you fucking lunatic!" Lawrence spat blood, struggling to rise.
Luke didn't give him the chance. He closed the distance in one stride, planting his foot on Lawrence's chest and pinning him to the floor like an insect.
Slowly, he bent down. Those ice-blue eyes held nothing but pure violence and contempt.
"You dared touch what's mine?"
Without waiting for an answer, Luke lifted his foot and drove it into Lawrence's abdomen with vicious force.
Lawrence's scream was inhuman, his body curling in agony.
Luke gestured coldly to his men, who dragged Lawrence away like discarded garbage.
Then he turned to me.
I sat frozen on the sofa, watching as he extended his hand—the same hand that had just delivered brutal violence. My stomach lurched. I turned my head sharply, refusing his touch.
"I feel sick," I said, my voice hoarse and cold.
Luke's hand froze mid-air.
His expression darkened, jaw clenching. The storm in his eyes hadn't abated—if anything, my rejection added fuel to the fire.
He thought I was afraid.
He didn't realize I was furious about Woody. About everything.
My resistance clearly pushed him over the edge.
Without warning, he bent down and hauled me over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Put me down! Luke!" I thrashed violently, fists pounding his back. It was like hitting solid rock—he didn't even flinch.
He ignored every protest, carrying me past his men and Lawrence's venomous glare, striding out of the club with long, purposeful steps.
Cold night air hit my face as he unceremoniously dumped me into the back seat of his Maybach.
The door slammed shut, sealing me inside.
The air pressure in the car was suffocating.
Luke sat beside me, his chest heaving with barely restrained fury. The driver didn't dare start the engine.
He stared at me, those ice-blue eyes burning like twin ghostly flames in the darkness.
"Emily, do you have any idea what you just did?" His voice finally broke the silence, each word grinding between clenched teeth, cold as a blade. "Lawrence Lowe is dangerous. You went after him alone—are you insane? Do you have any idea what went through my head when I got that message—"
There was something raw in his tone. Fear. Genuine terror he hadn't even acknowledged himself.
But all I felt was bitter irony.
A man with blood on his hands dared lecture me about worry?
"How is that any of your business?" I cut him off, turning to face him with eyes as cold and unfamiliar as a stranger's.
The temperature in the car plummeted.
He stared at me, looking like a beast pushed beyond its breaking point.
"Not my business?" he repeated slowly, each syllable ground out from somewhere deep in his throat, laced with a dangerous edge. "You think you're not my business?"
Suddenly, he lunged forward, caging me in. His hands braced on either side of my body, trapping me between the leather seat and his unyielding chest.
That familiar scent—gunpowder and cold cedar—invaded my senses with overwhelming force, more oppressive than ever before.
I could barely breathe.