Page 10 of Her Billionaire Protector

“Fuck off,” I shout, as loud as I can. The force of my words falls off quick, swallowed up by a wheezing pain in my lungs. It’s an old warehouse I’m in, garage doors opposite me. Some dirty oil smears on the ground and empty metal shelves lining one wall. Other than that, nothing. I listen. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights above is the only sound.

Except for me, and I’m alone.

I turn my head as far as it can go. They’ve chained me to a big red X. Same as the ones Harvey used to have at the Victory Mills club.

Harvey.

If he’s behind this, I’m not gonna make it out alive.

If today’s the day I die, I want to know now. I rattle my wrists as hard as I can, clanging the chains against the corrugated metal. “Hey!” I yell.

There’s one closed door over to my left. I strain to listen for anybody inside.

I kick my legs, struggling at the restraints and chains around my ankles. Padlocked. If they did a shit job of drilling this cross in, maybe I can bust out. I pull and strain, leaning forward with all my weight. Nothing budges.

The doorknob turns, and the door creaks open.

I’m not alone after all.

A wormy little guy walks out. Tiny spectacles. Dirty cardigan.

The guy from the Aerie, the one Armin took shots at. Probably would have killed him, too, if I hadn’t screamed until he stood down.

All so I didn’t have to report a body count during ops.

This is what I get for running from the paperwork.

“Looks like we’ve both been up all night,” I slur.

“Shut up, you fucking slut.”

Okay, so he’s conversational. Great. Now I just gotta keep him talking until—

Until what? Nobody knows I’m here, and I drugged the only person in this town who might have actually given a damn.

He stoops to rummage around in the corner.

“Listen,” I say. It’s a tough go of it to keep talking, not to nod off. “This seems super fun, and I’m not against it, but all orders go through Harvey.”

“I’m not here to fuck,whore.” He walks over with a jug in one hand, uncaps it, and splashes its contents in my face, across my arms, down my body. A scream tears from me. I become a stinging, burning mass. “Gotta clean you up.” His tone is conversational. “Manning’s on his way.”

I pant through the pain in short, frantic bursts. Isopropyl alcohol, I reassure myself, my eyes squeezed shut. Not hydrochloric acid. I turn my head and shrug my shoulder as high as I can to try and blot at my eyes, but I can’t quite reach.

The crash of metal on glass on concrete surprises us both. I blink one eye open in time to watch the garage door explode inward.

“What the fuck.” My captor drops his jug of isopropyl.

Guess it’s not Manning.

It’s a familiar SUV.

Armin emerges, steps into the dust and the wreckage.

He crosses the garage at a run, no gun in his hand, no weapon at all, nothing. I jerk my hands against the restraints, reflex, but there’s no escape. He grabs one of the empty shelves along the wall and he slams it hard into my cardigan assassin, until he’s pinned up against the wall. Armin yanks it back, a screech of metal on concrete, and hits the guy in his jaw. That’s all it takes, and he’s down.

He turns to me, his eyes lit with anger.

“He said his boss is coming.”