Chapter 87
Emily Windsor's POV
"Shut the hell up," Lawrence hissed, his hand shooting out like a striking viper. His fingers clamped around my throat with the crushing force of an iron vice.
"Nngh!"
The air vanished. Every sound I'd been making died, trapped uselessly in my windpipe.
Suffocation hit me like a tidal wave. My mind went blank, survival instinct driving my hands to claw desperately at the arm strangling the life out of me.
"Say one more word, and I'll snap your neck right now." Lawrence's voice was ice itself, his pronouncement of death whispered directly against my ear.
I stared up at his face, twisted with rage, as my vision started to blur. My lungs screamed, the burning agony threatening to rip me apart from the inside.
Just as I thought this was it—that I'd actually die here—Luke's voice tore through the veil of death, a raw, panicked roar that slammed into my fading consciousness.
The hand crushing my throat had become the detonator that finally obliterated whatever control he'd been clinging to.
Watching my face flush crimson from oxygen deprivation, watching me thrash in agony, the fragile composure Luke had been forcing himself to maintain shattered completely. "Let her go."
Lawrence seemed to savor his breakdown, malice gleaming brighter in his eyes even as he actually loosened his grip by a fraction. I gulped air greedily—air tainted with the coppery stench of blood—and dissolved into violent coughing. Tears streamed down my face, beyond my control.
"You want me to release her?" Lawrence chuckled softly, tapping the gun barrel against my cheek before turning his gaze back to Luke, like an artist admiring his masterpiece. "Simple. Get on your knees."
My coughing stopped cold. I stared at him in shock.
"Kneel. And beg me." Lawrence's tone was casual, almost playful, but the command itself was absolute.
Time seemed to freeze. The corridor fell into a deathly silence, broken only by my ragged breathing.
I locked eyes with Luke, shaking my head frantically.
'No, Luke. You can't. You're the cedar in my heart that never bends—you can't kneel to this monster!'
Luke's gaze traveled past Lawrence and found mine. In those unfathomable eyes, I saw something I'd never witnessed before—a violent storm of anguish and conflict.
It was a choice worse than death: his dignity on one side, my life on the other.
Before everyone watching, Luke bent those long, straight legs. His knees met the floor—slick with congealed blood—with a dull, sickening thud that sounded like bones cracking.
That sound hammered straight into my heart.
My tears broke free again.
The man who commanded boardrooms, who'd defied the entire council in that church, who'd been ready to throw away his life for me—that man was now kneeling before a despicable coward.
For me.
The smile on Lawrence's face grew wild with triumph. He released me and strolled leisurely toward Luke, looking down at him like an emperor surveying a defeated slave.
The sharp crack of flesh striking flesh echoed through the corridor.
Lawrence raised his hand and slapped Luke hard across the face.
Luke's head snapped to the side, his deathly pale cheek immediately blooming with the vivid imprint of five fingers. He made no sound. His expression didn't even flicker. He simply, slowly, turned his head back, his gaze still locked on me.
Another slap, harder than the first.
Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, stark and horrifying against his ghastly pallor.
"Run! Luke, please run!" I couldn't hold back anymore, struggling like a woman possessed. The two bodyguards restraining me could barely keep their grip. "Forget about me! Just go!"
But he acted as if he couldn't hear my sobs, only gazing at me quietly with those bottomless eyes.
He was telling me with that look: Don't be afraid. I've got this.
In that moment of locked gazes, something crystallized in my chaotic mind.
Something was off.
Luke wasn't the type to simply accept defeat.
This submission wasn't surrender—it was waiting. Waiting for an opening.
I understood.
Lawrence, clearly tired of our "touching eye contact," straightened up and kicked Luke's shoulder with the toe of his shoe in contempt.
"What a good, obedient dog," he marveled mockingly, his face radiating victory. "Grab him. String him up at the bow. When we get back to port, I want all of New York to see exactly what kind of murderous psychopath their golden boy really is."
Two guards immediately moved forward, gripping Luke's arms from either side to drag him away.
I gathered every ounce of strength in my body and wrenched myself free from the two bodyguards—who'd grown careless in their confidence—and launched myself toward Luke like a missile!
"Luke!"
My movement caught everyone off guard. They assumed I was just throwing myself at him for a tearful goodbye.
The instant I crashed into him, Luke caught me tight, using his body as a shield to protect me completely.
In that same heartbeat, his hand—the one hanging at his side—moved with lightning speed, drawing a black handgun from the holster strapped to his leg!
Everything erupted into chaos!
The gunshot exploded at point-blank range. The triumphant smile on Lawrence's face froze. He grunted, staring down in disbelief at his shoulder—shot again—as blood rapidly soaked through his expensive shirt.
In the split second of everyone's shock, Luke pulled me close and spun around, bolting toward the far end of the corridor—toward the deeper darkness beyond!
"Catch them!" Lawrence's enraged roar echoed behind us, followed immediately by a barrage of gunfire.
Bullets whizzed past our bodies, striking the metal walls and sending sparks flying in all directions.
Luke shielded me completely, using his own back as a barrier against every threat. I buried my face against his ice-cold chest, my heart threatening to leap out of my throat as wind and gunfire screamed in my ears.
We stumbled and crashed into an empty crew quarters, Luke kicking the door shut behind us and shoving a cabinet against it with his foot.
We were safe. For now.
I leaned against the door, gasping for air, my legs buckling under the weight of post-terror adrenaline.
"Luke, are you—" I looked up, about to ask if he was alright, but the words died in my throat.
Under the harsh light, his face was deathly pale without a trace of color, his forehead beaded with fine sweat, even his lips trembling slightly. This wasn't just exhaustion from our escape—this was a body pushed beyond its limits.
Instinctively, I raised my hand to touch his face, but froze when I saw my palm clearly.
All the blood drained from my body.
My hand was covered in wet, warm stickiness.
It wasn't mine. It wasn't someone else's blood we'd brushed against earlier.
It was his.