Pain lanced through my arms, but still I reached, desperate for him to hear me.
But his gaze—piercing, tortured, fixated on mine—remained. Until the shadows swallowed him.
Then he was gone.
The warehouse doors slammed shut behind him with a finality that reverberated through the cavernous space, a deafening echo of hopelessness.
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
Only the trail of his blood remained—a dark, twisting line across the cracked concrete, leading away into nothingness, a reminder of my helplessness and his sacrifice.
I sagged against the chair, hot tears streaking my cheeks, mingling with sweat and grime.
The ropes had burned grooves into my wrists; my body trembled with shock, exhaustion, and rage. My mind raced, a chaotic storm of disbelief and fury. How could he leave me? How could he—after everything we’d survived, everything we’d shared—choose her over me?
The Albanian man crouched near me, his fingers brushing my shoulder as if testing the texture of my fear. “Quiet now,” he said softly, the threat in his tone more terrifying than the knives sheathed at his belt. “The sooner you calm down, the sooner you might enjoy... your new life.”
My teeth clenched, fury coiling like a serpent in my chest.
Seraphina’s sobs broke loose beside me—ragged, hysterical, choking sounds that scraped against my nerves—but I barely registered them.
My mind was already splintering, thoughts shattering into jagged pieces that refused to fit together.
Heavy footsteps approached her chair.
I turned just in time to see a masked man cut through the ropes binding her wrists. The fibers snapped free with a dry, final sound. Another blade slid through the restraints at her ankles.
Free.
Seraphina gasped as circulation rushed back into her limbs. She sagged forward, crying harder now—not the terror of moments ago, but relief. Trembling hands clutched at her torn dress as they hauled her upright.
“No—wait—” I croaked, my voice barely a sound. My throat felt flayed raw.
She turned.
For a heartbeat, our eyes met.
Her face was blotched and tear-streaked, mascara smeared like war paint.
Shock flickered across her expression when she saw me still bound, still helpless. Then—something else slid into place. Relief. Gratitude. And beneath it... triumph she didn’t even bother to hide.
“They’re letting me go,” she whispered, almost disbelieving. Her gaze darted toward the door Dmitri had vanished through. “He chose me.”
The words crushed what little air remained in my lungs.
She hesitated, lips trembling, then took a shaky step backward as the men urged her forward. “I—I didn’t ask for this,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. “I didn’t know they’d—”
“Stop,” I whispered.
She stopped speaking.
The guard tightened his grip on her arm. “Shall we escort you to your man’s house, Miss Seraphina?” he said, his tone deceptively polite.
What the hell? The guard... he’s speaking to her with respect? After everything, after all the threats, the cruelty... now this?
As they pulled her away, Seraphina looked back one last time. Not with guilt. Not with sorrow.
With awe.
