ALURA'S POV
A heavy, skull-splitting headache ripped through my consciousness as my eyes fluttered open. The room was unfamiliar, bathed in a disorienting red light. I looked down at the flimsy, inappropriate lingerie I was wearing and felt a wave of nausea.
I desperately tried to recall how I got here, but my memory was a blank slate after the golf club blow from Tasha's guards and the ensuing darkness. What had they done to me while I was unconscious?
"Think, Allura. You're a fighter. We need to get out before that pervert comes back," I whispered, forcing my eyes to adjust. A cold resolve settled in my chest. "Damn you, Magnus. If I escape this, you'll regret everything."
My legs were wobbly, but I pressed forward, determined and fearless, until I reached the door. The moment I yanked it open, a heavily drunk man slammed into me, sending me sprawling backward onto the rug. My head hit a wooden stool, intensifying the already traumatizing ache.
He gulped from a half-empty bottle before tossing it aside. "You whore, where do you think you're going?" he slurred, dragging me painfully by the elbow, his nails digging into my flesh.
"Stop, you're hurting me!" Panic threatened to seize me, but I fought it back, knowing I couldn't afford to lose control. "Let me go, or I'll call the police."
He stopped, and I was momentarily hopeful, but then his laughter boomed—a sickening, contemptuous sound. "Hah! Me afraid of the same greedy bastards who work for us? Get in bed while I'm asking nicely, or I'll blow your f**king head off."
My heart lurched into my throat when I saw the gun. Acting purely on instinct, I lunged, kicking him first in the shin, then hard in the groin, knocking the weapon to the floor. As I tried to bolt, he grabbed a handful of my hair and delivered a brutal backhand slap that split my lip, flooding my mouth with the metallic taste of blood.
I hadn't been struck that hard in my life; I genuinely feared I'd lost a tooth. That was it. I snapped. Kicking him again, I followed through with a punch to his eye. He let out a piercing scream, clutching his face. We struggled, his grip on my hair tightening. As he tore the silk nightgown, exposing my skin, I reached for the heavy flower vase and smashed it over his head. It wasn't enough. He tightened his hold around my throat, and I gasped, fighting for air.
With a desperate finality, I grasped a jagged broken shard and stabbed it straight into his neck. He went limp, collapsing heavily onto me. "Uggghhh, f**king bastard!" I spat, shoving his lifeless weight off and adding a furious kick to his body before scrambling up.
The hallway was clear. I burst through the door and started running through what looked like a massive, eerily unguarded hotel. I reached a four-way intersection and collided with a passing security guard. I acted casual, but just as I breathed a sigh of relief, he yelled, "Hey, stop there!"
I ignored him, my steps turning into a frantic sprint. "Hey! Block all exits! There's a prostitute on the loose!"
The alarm blared. I reached an elevator, but the doors were locked, the controls useless. Turning, I saw a dozen men closing in, their faces grim and unforgiving. Unlucky until the end, I thought, resigning myself to fate. But then, I stumbled backward into a dark, open doorway. The men hesitated, none daring to follow.
Seizing the inexplicable opportunity, I slammed the door shut, gulping for air. The relief was instantaneous—and brutally short-lived. I turned to find a gun muzzle pressed against my forehead and heard a low, almost inhuman growl that sent a primal shiver down my spine.
"Who sent you, and what are you doing here?"
My mouth went dry, stripping me of the ability to speak. I had escaped one nightmare only to walk straight into one far worse, far more uncertain.
The gun muzzle pressed tighter against my head. "Cat's got your tongue?" The voice was tighter, angrier now. "You're with Lucas Turner, aren't you? Or Alfred Giovanni? How much did they pay you to risk your worthless life?"
I grimaced, struggling to process his nonsense. I hadn't even met those men, and with a gun to my head, I desperately wanted to cry. But this wasn't the time, not unless I wanted to join my family and forfeit my revenge. "No... I—ugh—I was sold here by my husband, Magnus Dawson, CEO of Frost Companies," I stated, praying the gun would move. It didn't.
"Siri, curtains open," he commanded. The massive curtain swept back, and the brightest moonlight flooded the room. The figure was revealed in the soft glow: a dark-haired man with the most striking, ocean-green eyes I had ever seen. He was impossibly tall, maybe six-foot-ten, a staggering height that made him tower over me; I barely reached his shoulder.
He grabbed my neck, shoving me toward the door. Pain flooded my body, intensifying from head to toe. "I don't believe you. You're going to walk out that door and meet your fate, or take each of my bullets to your vital points."
"What?" I gasped, my mouth falling open, panic surging through me like a tsunami. "No, I can't go out there, I'll be killed! Please, I'll do anything! Just shield me until they've left, and I'll be out of your hair."
"What makes you think you can negotiate with me, huh?" he growled, his grip on my neck tightening. "Do you know who I am?"
My eyes welled up, tears finally streaming down my face. It had come to this. I couldn't walk out, and I refused to die, not before I dragged those motherfuckers to hell first. Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed his neck and locked lips with him—a total stranger. It should have repulsed me, but it didn't. I kept kissing, yet he stood stiff as a dead log. When I finally pulled away, bracing for the worst, he grabbed my hair, pulling my face close until our foreheads almost touched. "You're the worst kisser I've ever come across," he commented, before crashing his mouth back onto mine. This time, I didn't have a second to breathe; all my energy was focused on not suffocating.
The world outside vanished as our lips locked again. He devoured my breath, the surprise kiss turning into a fierce, desperate exchange. My hands instinctively clutched the back of his neck, his rough grip on my hair momentarily forgotten in the heat of the moment.
Then, a soft, high-pitched whirring sound cut through the silence.
I tore my eyes open, glancing past his broad shoulder and toward the shattered window. Against the deep blue night sky, a tiny red laser pointer danced on the far wall. Following the beam, my gaze settled on the source: a sleek, black drone, hovering just outside the shattered pane, its lens pointed directly at the room, equipped with a menacing, small-caliber machine gun.
Panic galvanized me. This was it—my chance to buy my life.
I wrenched back and shoved him with all my strength, catching him off-guard. He crashed to the expensive wood floor just as the machine gun opened fire.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Bullets chewed through the air, ripping apart the wall where his head had been moments before. Glass showered everywhere as the remaining window frame exploded. The sound was deafening, splintering the silence and tearing the luxurious room to shreds.
"Stay down!" he roared, his voice laced with pure command, already scrambling on the floor. "Don't move, no matter what! We'll talk later!"
He dove sideways, rolling toward a massive oak desk, attracting the drone's attention. The drone, still far enough away to need precise aiming, followed his movement.
Seeing my chance, I ignored his order. I spotted a heavy, silver fireplace poker leaning near the hearth. I lunged, snatching the cold metal stick. The drone was now closer, having moved a few feet inside the room, hunting the man.
"Hey!" I screamed, rushing toward it and swinging the heavy poker like a baseball bat.
I connected with the drone's chassis. A sickening crunch echoed, and sparks flew as the machine tumbled, momentarily stunned. It quickly stabilized, shifting its focus entirely to me, its gun swiveling to lock on target.
Before it could fire, a sudden, thunderous blast erupted next to me.
KA-BOOM!
The man had reached his weapon—a massive, black blaster gun—and fired a shot the size of a fist. The drone vanished in a plume of smoke and shredded metal, reduced instantly to smoking scrap junk.
I stared at the debris, then at the man. He stood up, the huge weapon looking almost casual in his hands.
"You're quite a natural at carrying such a huge gun," I managed, breathlessly. "And why exactly are you being attacked by a drone with a full load of bullets?"
"Shut up and lay low!" he snapped, reloading the blaster with swift, practiced movements.
He didn't wait for an answer, firing again at unseen threats outside. He tracked and destroyed three more targets—a silent, deadly hunter at work. He was completely distracted, focused on the dark sky.
That's when I saw it: a tiny red light, steady and unwavering, appearing on the wall above his head. A new pointer.
Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the adrenaline rush. This time, it wasn't a drone; it was a human marksman, and the pointer was aiming for his skull.
I didn't think. I reacted.
With a desperate cry, I rushed forward and tackled him, wrapping my arms around his waist as we slammed to the ground. We changed positions, and in the space of a heartbeat, a shot rang out.
A searing, blinding pain exploded across my back, right beneath my shoulder blade.
My body convulsed, my grip loosening, and before I could gasp, another bullet found its mark—a burning impact high on my left shoulder. I felt my consciousness splintering as a dizzying warmth spread across my clothes.