Chapter 45

Chapter 44

Wren

"LET'S DO this," I whisper, gripping the pipe like it's my damn lifeline. A rush of exhilaration pulses through my veins, raw and potent. I'm ready to raise some hell.

A glimmer of hope ignites within me as I eye the old, rusting doorknob. I've seen enough action movies to know a thing or two about breaking locks. All I need is one good swing, one good fucking hit, and that damn knob will fly right off. Picture the cool rush of freedom, right?

But then, fucking typical, I hear the murmur of voices outside. My heart plummets, ice-cold dread pooling in my gut.

"Cock-blocking bastards," I grumble, my gaze darting to the locked door. I shove the pipe back under the old cloth, concealing it as best as I can. Can't risk those fuckers finding my ticket out of this shithole. Not when Nilo's life hangs by a thread.

Crossing the room, I kneel next to Nilo, his face as pale as a ghost's. Each breath he takes is shaky and labored. He needs the drugs. Now.

Then the door creaks open, revealing two of Aleks's goons, their smug faces setting my teeth on edge. I force a false smile, my heart hammering an erratic tattoo in my chest.

"Hey, assholes," I call out, injecting a bubbly note into my voice. "Nice timing."

Seeing the two meatheads, my lip curls in disgust. One of them eyes me up and down, a grotesque smile playing on his lips. His gaze lingers far too long on my boobs, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to gouge his fucking eyes out right then and there.

"Like what you see?" I quip, forcing a flirty grin. Inside, I'm seething. But right now, I need them comfortable, distracted, their guard down. So, I swallow my pride and play along.

"Aw, look at you two," I coo, leaning against the wall as the goons move toward Nilo. "Doing your jobs and everything. Your shithead boss would be so proud."

I eye them both, assessing. One's built like a fucking bear, broad and hulking, while the other is wiry, his eyes mean. I figure he's the one I have to watch out for.

I start to walk, my every move calculated. Slow, casual, like I'm just bored and not planning to bash their skulls in.

The wiry one grunts, yanking out \a syringe. I watch as he thrusts the needle into Nilo's arm. My stomach clenches.

"Easy there, Doc," I taunt. "I think you missed his vein."

He sneers at me over his shoulder. "Shut up, bitch. One more word, and I'll make sure you regret it."

I chuckle, feigning nonchalance. "Promises, promises."

My eyes flicker over to Nilo. The sight of him like that…it's a jolt to my core. He was always the light in the room, back in the day when we went to the same high school. Nilo was that kind of guy who'd give you the shirt off his back if he thought you needed it more than he did.

We're the same age, both twenty-six now, but while I was learning the art of pole dancing and how to kick ass, he was charming the entire high school with his damn infectious laugh and goofball antics.

Now, look at him – slumped in a grimy corner, life ebbing away with every second. It's a fucking tragedy.

Man, Sophia's got it rough. I still remember when I first ran into her back when she was just a kid trying to keep up with the morning rush at The Morning Brew.

But she's got fire in her eyes, the same spark I see in the mirror every morning. I've never met anyone as stubbornly determined. There she was, barely out of high school, her life a whirlwind of responsibility. She reminded me of, well, me. It was like looking at my own damned reflection. We were two peas in a pod, each dealing with our own brand of hell. No wonder we clicked.

There's a pang in my chest, a tug of shared history, but I don't have time for sentiment; right now, I just need the right fucking moment.

The wiry one backhands Nilo, snapping his head to the side. Nilo doesn't even flinch, already too far gone in his drug-induced haze.

The other shithead lets out a mean laugh. It's a nasty, disgusting sound.

My fingers brush the rough cloth that's hiding my weapon. I'm so close. Just need to time this right.

"I gotta say, it's kinda laughable, you two gorillas walloping a twig of a guy who's out cold," I shoot back, letting my voice drip with sarcasm. "But let's cut the crap. The only scary thing about you two is your stank. Seriously, you take a dive in a septic tank or something?"

The bear-like one growls, turning toward me. And that's when I strike. With a swift motion, I pull the pipe from its hiding place, gripping it tightly.

"You two fuckers are about to have a very bad day," I say, a vicious grin spreading across my face. "Just thought you should know."

I swing, putting all my strength behind the pipe. It connects with his knee, and he goes down with a roar, clutching at his leg. "Still feeling smug, big guy?"

"Take her down!" he howls, but I'm already moving, stepping into the wiry one's space. He steps back, surprise flashing across his face. It's cute that he thought I wouldn't fight back.

I was just biding my time.

I swing again, but he's quick. He sidesteps, the pipe whistling past his face. He lunges forward, but I meet him with a knee to the stomach. He doubles over, gasping for air. I use the momentum to bring the pipe down on his back, hearing the gratifying thud of metal against flesh.

The room erupts into chaos. The bear-like one is back on his feet, but he's hobbling, his face twisted in pain. The wiry one is trying to get up, his back arching.

"Get up, you fucker!" I taunt, dancing out of the bear-like goon's reach. "Come on, show me what you got."

He lunges, but I dodge, the pipe singing through the air as I smack him right in the gut. He stumbles, his eyes going wide, and I take my chance.

With a grunt, I swing the pipe one more time, the metallic thud echoing in the room as it connects with the side of his head. He crumples to the ground, out cold.

Grinning triumphantly, I turn to the remaining one. "Your turn. Ready for a dance, twiggy?" I challenge, grinning at the wiry goon who's managed to stagger back onto his feet.

He growls, launching himself at me. I pivot, bringing up the pipe to block his attack. He's fast, but I'm faster. I've danced around men much bigger, much stronger, for a living.

Our fight is a messy, brutal dance. He swings, I duck. I jab, he blocks. We're a whirl of flying fists and clashing metal. Each hit I land is a symphony, each block a well-rehearsed dance move.

"Is that all you've got?" I taunt, my smile never leaving my face. I've taken harder hits from slobbering drunks. This guy's a joke.

In response, he flings himself at me, aiming for my stomach. I twist, letting his fist pass harmlessly by before I ram my elbow into his jaw. There's a satisfying crunch, and he reels back, clutching his face.

I laugh, a wild, fierce sound. "Poor baby," I mock, winding up for the knockout blow.

This is going to be good.

But then, there's a moment of white-hot pain.

Fuckballs!

A pair of hands close around my throat, lifting me off the ground. I kick, thrashing against the hold, but it's useless. The bear-like goon has got me in a vice-like grip.

"Night-night, little bitch," he grunts in my ear, his hot breath reeking of cheap vodka and cigarettes.

My world fades to black.