Page 64 of Chained By Fate (Dark Billionaires: Vegas #1)
I said nothing, my eyes fixed on a point somewhere over his shoulder. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze, couldn’t bear to see the possessive glint in those stormy steel-gray eyes. Matt didn’t press for a response. With one last, lingering look, he turned and left the room.
Alone, I buried my face in the plush cushion of the sofa, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum.
I had never known love before this whirlwind named Matt Caine had swept into my life.
And now? Now it terrified me more than anything else.
To give away pieces of myself to someone else—to him—was like standing on the edge of a cliff with only his hands keeping me from falling.
The thought of seeing him again at dinner made my stomach churn with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
I needed time, needed space to sort through my feelings, to shore up the defenses that Matt had so effortlessly torn down.
I couldn’t stay here, not while my emotions were in such turmoil.
I needed to leave, needed to put some distance between us.
Maybe then I could regain some semblance of control, could convince myself that I wasn’t hopelessly in love with the man who had stolen my body and, try as I might to deny it, had laid claim to my heart as well.
I heaved a sigh that could’ve filled a dozen balloons, my gaze flicking to the sleek phone resting innocently on the coffee table.
With a resigned grunt, I snatched it up, thumbing through contacts until Fin’s name flashed on the screen.
The line buzzed once, twice—no answer. He was probably elbow-deep in some cleaning disaster.
His infectious laughter and lighthearted jests would have been a balm to my jumbled nerves.
“Figures,” I muttered to myself, feeling a twitch of annoyance. My thumb hovered, then jabbed at Ethan’s name next. But just like his brother, he was off the grid, likely dealing cards to high rollers with more money than sense.
“Great,” I grumbled, tossing the phone back onto the couch.
A sigh escaped me, frustration coiling in my gut like a spring wound too tight. My plan to crash with them was crumbling like a poorly shuffled deck. Without their warm welcome or even just a couch to crash on, I was adrift.
I sat back down for a moment, rubbing a hand over my face. My old apartment—the one I’d clung to out of sheer stubbornness—was my only sanctuary now. It was still mine until month’s end, a small grace in the midst of chaos.
With a newfound sense of purpose, I scrambled to my feet, my muscles protesting the sudden movement.
I hunted down my backpack—a relic from a less complicated past—and shoved in the essentials: wallet, laptop, and some old clothes that didn’t reek of Matt Caine’s wealth.
I needed to remind myself of who I was before him.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, I bided my time until three p.m.—the changing of the guard when Bruno and Tyrone would take their breaks and the penthouse became less Fort Knox and more sneaky getaway window.
They probably thought I was still languishing in post-coital exhaustion in Matt’s penthouse suite.
As the minute hand ticked freedom, I slipped out of the room.
The corridor was as deserted as my stomach was hollow.
I made a beeline for the elevator, my pulse racing with every step.
The doors slid open with a soft ding, and I stepped inside, my breath hitching as I descended to the lobby.
I half expected to see Bruno or Tyrone striding toward me, their faces set in stern disapproval, but the coast was clear. I had made it.
Once outside, my feet carried me swiftly away from Matt’s world of luxury and suffocating affection. A taxi rolled up like a chariot offering escape; I jumped in without hesitation.
The familiar streets passed by in a blur and relief flooded through me when the taxi pulled up to my old apartment building.
I paid the fare, trudged up the stairs with heavy limbs but a lighter heart, and pushed open the door to my spartan sanctuary.
Home at last, I collapsed onto the sofa.
Sleep claimed me instantly—a deep slumber born of emotional exhaustion—and there I lay sprawled across the cushions that smelled faintly of dust and simpler times.
I didn’t know how long I had been out. It felt like I’d been hit by a truck, physically and emotionally.
The kind of sleep that swallows you whole, dragging you into an abyss where even dreams can’t find you.
But then the banging started—loud, relentless, and annoying as hell.
I jolted awake, my mind a foggy mess as I tried to piece together where I was.
Right, my apartment. The one I ran back to like a coward running from a storm.
And then it hit me—Mia. Shit! What was I thinking? Running off without telling her, when she had come all the way from Mystic Spring just to see me? If there were an award for being a heartless jerk, I’d have a shelf full of them.
The insistent banging continued. My mind raced—could Matt have discovered my great escape? But no, something was off. Matt wouldn’t just bang on the door continuously like some crazed lunatic. He’d be calling my name, his voice like thunder, demanding my presence.
I shuffled over to the window and peeked through the blinds, heart thudding against my ribs.
Peering out, I saw shadows cast by figures that didn’t carry themselves with Matt’s men’s calculated calm.
They were rugged, hardened, with an air of menace that sent a chill down my spine.
They were Carlos’ men—I’d recognize them anywhere.
Panic surged through me like a bolt of lightning.
I needed to get out and fast. Time to make a quick exit—stage rear.
Snatching up my phone, I darted to the bathroom at the back of the apartment and flung open the window. The sound of splintering wood echoed as my door gave way just as I swung myself out into the night air. The drop was nothing—a mere hiccup for someone with my history of hasty retreats.
Feet pounding on pavement, I sprinted through the labyrinth of backstreets.
The men’s shouts grew louder behind me; their pursuit was relentless, but I refused to let fear paralyze me.
I’d been knocked down more times than I could count, but I’d always found a way to get back up again. Tonight would be no different.
They wanted something from me—revenge for that botched drug deal? But that was Matt and William’s mess—I was just Andy Donovan, resident nobody.
I could hear them gaining on me as I weaved through backstreets and over fences like some kind of urban fox. I skidded to a halt as I rounded a corner, finding myself face-to-face with a group of Carlos’ men.
Alright, boys, let’s dance.
My fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening as adrenaline surged through me like wildfire. The first guy lunged at me; I sidestepped and landed a solid punch to his gut that sent him reeling back. Another came at me from the side—I ducked under his swing and kicked his legs out from under him.
My fists connected with a jawbone and then a soft stomach with satisfying thuds. One grabbed for me; I ducked low again and came up hard with an uppercut that had him seeing stars not listed in any astronomy book.
Boots lashed out next—mine finding knees and shins with unerring accuracy born from desperation and street smarts. Another tried to flank me; I spun around and sent him crashing into his buddy with a well-placed elbow strike.
The scuffle was less finesse and more feral—as if every punch and kick dragged up from Mystic Spring’s dusty streets where I learned to stand my ground or get ground down. It was pure instinct—the kind that had kept me alive when life decided it wanted to chew me up and spit me out for fun.
A fist grazed my cheek; I retaliated with a hook that would make a boxer proud. Sweat stung my eyes; blood thrummed in my ears—a primal drumbeat urging me on.
They kept coming—like waves crashing against a cliff—but I stood my ground. My elbow connected with a nose, sending blood spurting; a knee jabbed into someone’s ribs elicited a pained grunt; another kick aimed at a kneecap brought another man down.
I fought with everything I had, bashing and kicking like my life depended on it—because it did. I’d been through hell and back, and I’d be damned if I let these thugs be the end of my story. Each blow landed was met with resistance; each strike taken only fueled my determination.
But there were too many of them.
A punch caught me off guard, knocking the wind out of me as pain exploded across my jaw. Stumbling back, I barely had time to register another hit before it sent stars dancing in my vision.
With one final punch that felt like it had been delivered by a freight train with personal issues, my legs buckled beneath me. The world went dark as I hit the ground with all the grace of a rag doll. It was lights out for Andy Donovan.
When consciousness came creeping back like an unwanted hangover, I was already wishing it hadn’t.
My body felt like it had been used as a pinata at some sadistic kid’s birthday party.
I tried to move, but my limbs wouldn’t cooperate.
A groan escaped my lips as I realized I was bound, my wrists and ankles screaming in protest against the rough ropes.
Every inch of me throbbed with pain. My face felt like it had been used as a punching bag, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.
My head pounded in time with what felt like an amateur jazz drummer going to town on my brain.
Disoriented and aching, I struggled to piece together what had happened, to remember why I was here.
The room was a blur of shadows and grime, the smell of mildew and old blood thick in the air. If pain had a color, it would’ve painted this room.
Then he walked in—Carlos Ruiz himself. Without so much as a How do you do?
, he drew back his fist and let it fly, the impact sending shock waves of agony through my already battered face.
Each hit was a punctuation mark in his silent tirade—hot, hard blows that turned my face into something abstract artists might call “post-fight chic.”
I lost track of how long it went on, the world narrowing down to the relentless onslaught of Carlos’ fists. My head lolled to the side, my vision swimming in and out of focus as the numbness spread, a welcome respite from the pain.
As Carlos paced the room, muttering about his losses and how it was all Matt Caine’s fault, his words drifted through my foggy brain. He blamed Matt for everything—apparently I was just the message board he’d chosen to pin his grievances on.
Through the haze of pain and confusion, realization dawned on me—I was bait.
A worm on the hook meant to lure Matt into whatever twisted game Carlos had concocted.
And that sinking feeling wasn’t just from the punches; it came from knowing people I cared about were being dragged into this because of me.
Carlos wasn’t done yet; he came back for an encore performance that left me swimming in darkness once more. His fists were relentless—each strike an echo of hatred that resonated through my bones until all I could feel was numbness creeping up to claim me.
As consciousness slipped away again, two faces swam into view: Mia’s worried brown eyes filled with sisterly love and Matt’s stormy gaze that somehow promised both safety and danger. I couldn’t leave them—not without telling Matt what he meant to me.
Life had always been something I surfed on without much thought—a series of waves to ride until they crashed onto shore. But lying there, with each labored breath feeling like it might be my last, life suddenly seemed precious—a fragile thing worth fighting for.
I had to survive this—for Mia, for myself… and yeah, for Matt Caine. Because damn it all if I didn’t love him more than I’d ever thought possible.
And with that thought clinging stubbornly to the edges of my battered consciousness, darkness pulled me under once again.