Chapter 218: THE SNAKE SHOWS HER FACE.

AVERY’S POV:

The SUV door slid open with a low mechanical hiss, and harsh daylight punched into the dim interior. I squinted against the glare, my eyes stinging from the sudden exposure after hours—maybe more—locked in the gloom.

A hand gripped my upper arm, fingers biting into skin as I was yanked upright.

As I walked, the rough stones and debris digging into my bare feet, I kept thinking what could've been planned for me. If they intended to kill me, they would have done so already. The fact that I was still alive suggested that they wanted something from me.

But what?

I racked my brain, trying to think of anyone who might hold a grudge against me. The list was endless.

The questions swirled in my mind, but I couldn't pinpoint a single person or motive. There were too many.

"Move," came a gruff voice near my ear.

I gritted my teeth but obeyed.

The air outside was dry, chalky with dust. I stumbled forward, blinking hard, trying to focus. My soles scraped against gravel and broken concrete, sharp edges digging into the skin. I winced but didn’t make a sound.

A large metal hangar stood a few feet away, flanked by rusting vehicles and heaps of scrap. It looked abandoned—one of those places where things came to die. Remote. Isolated.

Perfect for whatever they had planned.

The man dragging me was massive—muscle packed into a body that had seen too many fights and lost most of them. His receding hairline and pitted face made him look like someone who took pleasure in causing pain. He didn't bother hiding it either.

My hands were cuffed tightly behind me. Not rope. Metal. No wiggle room. No chance of escape.

No one was coming. I'd made sure of that when I dismissed the security team and left without backup. Against Thaddeus’ warnings.

Stupid. Reckless. Naïve.

Inside the hangar, the air was cooler but heavy with mildew and motor oil. The concrete floor stretched out, barren except for a few scattered, grimy pieces of furniture—mismatched chairs, a dented filing cabinet, a coffee table with peeling Formica.

In the far-right corner, about fifteen men were sprawled out, drinking and laughing like this was just another night in hell. I scanned their faces—no one familiar. No sign of Axel’s men. At least there were no traitors.

The bastard gripping my arm didn’t pause. He dragged me toward the left wall and shoved me down without care. My body hit the floor hard—my shoulder taking the full brunt of it, my cheek scraping the damp, gritty concrete.

I hissed through clenched teeth, tasting dirt.

“Don’t fucking move,” he barked.

He positioned himself between me and the entrance, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the massive sliding doors that remained cracked open. Sunlight poured in, slicing across the room in long golden beams.

Looked like we were waiting for someone.

I twisted onto my side and sat up slowly, leaning against the cold wall, legs folded awkwardly beneath me. I tilted my chin just enough to face the bastard looming over me and also see the entrance.

“You’re gonna regret this,” I said coldly. “I’ll kill you myself.”

The threat landed like a stone tossed into still water—small, quiet, but enough to make ripples.

He turned slowly, smile twisting into something feral. Then, his hand came down like a whip across my face, the slap jolting my head to the side.

The sting bloomed instantly, spreading fire through my cheek. Before I could recover, he grabbed my jaw, forcing my face toward his.

And then—he spat.

Warm saliva dripped down my cheek.

“That’s for Altherio,” he hissed.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t give him that.

Instead, I stared into his face—into the violence, the hate, the pitiful need to assert dominance—and held it. Quiet. Still.

But inside, a storm was building. Slow. Steady. Ruthless.

Altherio.

That name.

So this wasn’t just a random attack. This was blood for blood.

One of Altherio's must be pulling strings of revenge and I was the prize.

They thought they’d broken me by slapping me, spitting on me, dragging me across gravel like I was nothing.

But they hadn’t seen what I became when the people I cared about bled.

Let them wait. Let them bring in their boss, their monster, their judge and executioner.

I would burn their world to the ground—starting with the one who dared to touch me.

It must’ve been two, maybe three hours since they dragged me into this godforsaken warehouse. I couldn’t be sure—no windows, no clock, no way to tell. My wrists were now cuffed to a cold steel chair welded to the floor. Solid. No chance of movement, let alone escape.

Around me, a handful of armed men stood idle, chatting in low tones or scrolling through their phones. Their rifles rested against walls or slung lazily over their shoulders. No one seemed particularly bothered by my presence. Not anymore.

My head pounded with a slow, brutal rhythm, and every inch of my body ached. My feet throbbed from walking barefoot over broken gravel, and my arms were covered in angry bruises from being tossed around like luggage. The sting on my cheek still pulsed from that earlier slap, and a few strands of hair clung stubbornly to my blood-dried lip.

Still, I kept my chin high.

"Who's in charge?" I asked, voice dry, edged with disdain. I was bored of waiting without anyone coming forth.

One of them, a skinny bastard with yellowed teeth and a cigarette dangling from his lips, turned to me with a scowl.

“Shut up, whore,” he muttered, exhaling smoke like he was exorcising demons.

Classy.

They hadn't done anything more than toss me around, throw a few slurs, and make the kind of dirty jokes that sounded like they belonged in a sewer. I was bruised, battered—but still untouched. Still alive. That had to mean something.

Why haven’t they done anything yet?

Was I bait? A message? A prize?

Suddenly, the trill of a phone broke through the stillness. The ugly one—the same thug who’d slapped me earlier—fished it from his pocket and answered.

He listened in silence for a beat, then his gaze slid toward the group of men crowded around the coffee table, laughing at some video on one of their phones.

“She’s here,” he barked, loud enough to snap them to attention.

Instantly, the men leapt from their chairs and scrambled for their weapons, moving with a choreographed urgency. A line formed near the entrance, rifles cocked, expressions sharpened.

A silver car rolled into the warehouse with a hiss of tires against concrete. It slid to a stop right in front of me—too close, deliberate.

The driver stepped out and rounded to the back door, opening it like he was welcoming royalty.

And there she was.

Esmeraya.

Draped in a tailored purple suit, her heels tapped a steady rhythm against the floor as she stepped out—every move precise, every gesture reeking of self-importance. Her hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. Her expression? That smug, snake-like grin I remembered all too well.

She looked at me like I was roadkill.

Of course it was her. I should’ve known. The lowlife must've united with Altherio’s men to pull this off.

The scent of expensive perfume mixed with venom should’ve tipped me off the moment that slap landed. This was Esmeraya’s style—cold, showy, and personal.

She took a slow, indulgent breath as her gaze settled on me.

“You know,” she said, strolling toward me like this was some sort of reunion, “if anyone had told me you'd still be this reckless—after everything—I would’ve laughed them out of the room.”

She stopped a few feet away, hands clasped in front of her, the corners of her mouth curled in mock amusement.

“I mean, really, Avery. Walking around like you’ve got nine lives... or maybe you just think the rules don’t apply to you.”

Her tone was light. Almost playful. But her eyes—those gleaming eyes—told a different story.

There was hatred there.

And worse—pleasure.

She was enjoying this.

I stared back at her, silent, refusing to give her what she wanted. No fear. No tears. No cracks.

Not now.

Not ever.