Page 23 of Soulmate of the Mafia King (Kings of Philly #8)

PAIGE

I scrambled for purchase on the plush carpet as Zahur dragged me through the suite by my hair. Pain and fear raced through my body. Oh, God. Rico. Harry. Eddie. Dead. Dead. Dead. My feet slid in their blood.

His goons followed us through the suite to the door of the bedroom Tom and I shared. The bastard only paused long enough to kick the door down before grabbing me under my arms and tossing me onto the bed.

I tumbled through the air in slow motion. The knife under the back of my bra pressed cold and sharp against my spine. If I landed wrong, it was all over. I was such an idiot. All this fighting, and I was going to die by my own knife.

A small, bitter voice in my head suggested that might be better than letting him touch me again.

I landed on the mattress on my side. The razor-sharp knife scratched the bare skin of my back, but I barely had time to notice that before Zahur flipped me onto my back and loomed over me.

“My little redhead,” he said. “I’ve been dreaming of you.”

His sickly sweet cologne crowded my nostrils, plugged my throat. He clawed at my breast, the cotton of my T-shirt barely dulling the feel of him. A few of his men called suggestions in Arabic from the door. He dragged his nose down my cheek and exhaled hot breath onto my ear.

“I remember how you sang, azizati ,” he murmured. “I’m looking forward to making you sing again.”

Scream . He meant how I had screamed. Through everything I’d remembered, I’d forgotten that. He flicked out a wickedly sharp knife, the same one I remembered from that last night with him, and everything in me froze.

My heartbeat slowed. My breathing, even slower. Every joint locked. My arms lay stiff at my sides, my legs dangling off the bed. All my screams, all my hopes of someone else hearing, died. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I hadn’t prepared for this.

Zahur grabbed the hem of my shirt and slit it up the middle with his knife.

The men behind him hooted. I couldn’t close my eyes, couldn’t even move them from his face.

What the fuck was I doing? What was all my training for if I was just going to lie here like a dead body when I finally got a chance to use it?

His hands were rough against my skin. Familiarly so. If I brought my knee up, I could shove him back toward his men who might shoot him in the second before they shot me.

My knee stayed locked. Frozen.

Zahur wouldn’t shut the fuck up. He continued to tease me, taunting me as he dragged the knifepoint over the bare skin of my stomach, my arms. I blocked him out. He drew the lines of the scars on my chest, nicking the front of my bra. A promise. He intended to take his time.

Come on! I screamed in my mind.

I was ice. Zahur leaned over me and crushed his mouth onto mine.

When my lips remained as icy as the rest of me, he pulled away and backhanded me.

My head cracked to the side. It didn’t hurt.

Not yet. Ice never hurt. It was never scared, either.

With gentle hands, it packed all the memories I’d unpacked back into the box in my mind, tucking them away for when we had more time.

But I was tired of running, tired of hiding from myself and what had happened to me. I’d unpacked that box on fucking purpose. I’d thawed under Tom’s warm eyes, his warm hands. Where was that Paige? Why couldn’t I find her?

Why was I nothing again?

Zahur set his knife down, stepped back, and started unfastening his pants. Hoarfrost hardened over my skin. I could do nothing but watch.

As one, his men whipped around. He spat something at them in Arabic, his hands still on his pants.

Takka-tak.

I knew that sound. Gunfire. A little of the ice around my joints began to melt. Zahur’s goons raced away, hefting guns as they went. All reloaded now.

Crash .

Zahur turned. I couldn’t be certain, but that sounded like the noise a heavily reinforced door would make if someone knocked it in.

Not someone. Tom. Just like in my nightmare-turned-dream so long ago, he was crashing in at the last second to save me. But this wasn’t a dream. And as much as Tom had saved me once upon a time, I’d spent all of those months learning how to save myself.

Magma crashed through my veins, melting the ice in a second. I sat up and whipped the knife out from under my shredded shirt as quickly as I could without cutting myself. I’d shed enough blood for this bastard.

He turned back. Rage filled his eyes, and he smiled a sick grin. “You brought your own toy, azizati .” He grabbed my wrist.

Like cool water, Tom’s voice filled my mind from one of our very first training sessions. Rotate your wrist out toward their thumb.

I wrenched my wrist out.

Grab the attacker’s neck.

I took hold of the greasy spot where his hair met his skin.

Pull your wrist back.

I yanked my arm toward me. The bastard stumbled forward, and I knew the last step without Tom having to tell me. I slammed my knee into his crotch, and his legs went weak as he screamed.

“My name,” I said as he whimpered. “is Paige.”

Then, I spun the knife in my hand to a stabbing grip as naturally as breathing and plunged it into the bastard’s chest. The blade scraped bone. Blood dribbled over my fingers. Gunfire still shook the suite.

His eyes widened, and he inhaled wetly. I’d missed. I’d fucked it up. I didn’t strike hard enough. Any second now, he was going to grab me again, take me again.

Panic tumbled through my thoughts, but the magma burned it all away. I withdrew the knife and slammed it home again.

This time, I didn’t miss.