Page 33 of Beautiful Lies

A startled gasp tears from my throat as my feet leave the ground.

“Knox!” I shout, pounding my fists against his back. “Put me down!”

He doesn’t. He hoists me higher, throwing me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. My breath rushes out in disbelief as his hand clamps around the back of my thighs to steady me.

“You’re insane!”

“Maybe.” His voice is rough near my ear. “But we’re still leaving.”

I twist, kick, anything to get free, but all it does is make his grip tighten. The bastard doesn’t even flinch.

To my absolute horror, he marches straight out the door with me, pausing only long enough to shut it behind him.

Then we’re moving down the hallway and into the elevator car like this is the most normal thing in the world.

The doors slide shut, sealing us in. The quiet hum of the elevator fills the space, a soft, mechanical whir that makes my pulse sound even louder in my ears.

“Put me down. This is kidnapping.” I brace my hands against his back.

“It’s called enforcement,” he says, like we’re discussing a meeting agenda.

“You can’t just take me out of my home.”

“Clause fifty,” he cuts in smoothly.

My jaw tightens. “You’re a psychopath.”

“You signed the paperwork,” he reminds me, unbothered.

The elevator dings softly as it stops on the ground floor.

The doors slide open, releasing a wave of city air—oil, smoke, and the faint stench of rain-soaked garbage seeping in from outside.

The tiny lobby is half-lit, its cracked tiles glistening under a buzzing fluorescent bulb.

Although I wriggle against his shoulder, still trying to break free, Knox doesn’t slow. He marches straight across the lobby, pushing through the glass doors and out into the night while still carrying me like a damn sack of flour.

“Knox!” I hiss, twisting against him. “Put me down!”

“Not a chance.”

He shifts me higher on his shoulder, then presses down on my thigh again, and I accept defeat. It would take the Hulk, or some kind of superpower, to pry myself out of his grasp.

The night outside is all noise and neon. Streetlights flicker over the cracked pavement, a siren wails somewhere in the distance, and then he stops.

I twist, trying to see what made him pause, and my stomach drops.

A motorcycle waits under the flickering streetlight. Black, sleek, and gleaming like something straight out ofJohn Wick. It looks fast enough to outrun reason itself and dangerous enough to eat the night alive.

There’s no way that’s his.

Knox Vale on a motorcycle?

But then he sets me on my feet right beside the bike.

“This is yours?” I look from him to the machine, my jaw slack.

“Yes.”