His name was Liam.
He was massive.
And, like me, he’d served.
We would be equally matched once I got out of the choke.
And I could.
I would.
Only right then, two men closed in on Dylan, grabbing at her.
And all my self-preservation evaporated as all I could think of was getting to her, saving her.
She kicked, punched, scratched.
But she was outnumbered.
They were stronger.
She knew she was going to be taken.
But she had the split second of brilliance to grab for my bloody-ass knife.
I watched as she shoved it into the waistband of her jeans, then down the side of her leg, likely cutting herself in the process, but she was too panicked to show pain.
Then I watched in fucking horror as she was dragged away.
Into the clubhouse.
Away from me.
My vision was going spotty.
The strength left my legs.
I was going to pass out.
And this bastard wasn’t stupid enough to let me go as soon as I did.
He’d choke me out until I died.
Two more minutes, give or take.
The spots got darker, taking over almost all of my vision.
Then the belt loosened.
The primal need for survival had me gasping hard. Once. Twice.
I wasn’t even aware of what was happening around me as my heart banged against my ribcage, as dizziness overtook me.
Then, through the rush of oxygen filling my body with adrenaline, I heard him.
Saint.
“Fucking fight!” he yelled from somewhere behind me.
