Page 40 of The Final Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #5)

T he world tilts sideways as I slam into the stone landing.

Air punches out of my lungs, ribs screaming with the impact.

My shoulder takes the brunt, white-hot pain flashing through me, and I roll, only to crash into the next set of steps.

Each jagged edge batters bone until I sprawl at the bottom, a heap of broken breath and throbbing limbs.

The room spins. My vision splits, then fuses again. The copper taste of blood blooms across my tongue, thick and cloying. I try to push up, but my elbow buckles beneath me, useless. My body feels like a marionette with its strings cut, limp and unsteady.

And then?—

Boot steps. Slow. Unhurried.

Cormac strolls down the stairwell like he’s coming for Sunday supper, not walking into the ashes of a tomb, not dragging me into hell. The harsh shadows hide the sharp angles of his face, his smile carved cruel and thin.

Several of his men trail behind, shadows hulking, weapons glinting. At the top, he jerks his chin without looking back.

“Keep watch up there. If any Ledger dogs come sniffin’, don’t let ’em past.”

Their footsteps fade, leaving me with this devil and the monsters at his side.

I try to scramble back, nails scraping over the gritty stone, but one of the men hauls me up like I weigh nothing. My body jerks, protesting every tug and drag as they force me forward.

The air down here is damp, colder, carrying the smell of mildew and rot. The underbelly of the church.

And then I see it.

The pyre.

A lattice of wood stacked high, blackened already at the edges like it’s been tested, waiting. In the center, a thick beam rises, jagged and cruel, prepared for a body to be lashed against it. My stomach heaves. My heart jackhammers.

“No.” The word mumbles through the gag, raw and broken. I thrash, kicking, clawing—anything—but it’s useless against their grip. One of them slams a fist into my gut and the air rips out of me again.

Cormac laughs, low and mean.

“Don’t waste your breath, love. You’ll need it for screamin’.”

I twist harder, panic clawing up my throat. My wrists burn where they tied them, using the rope to drag me closer, closer. My mind races—Killian, is he alive? Did he make it out? He has to. He has to.

But Cormac leans down, his face close enough I can smell the whiskey and cigarettes on his breath.

“You know what I like best, Seraphina? Poetic endings. Even if my brother does come for you, he’ll never make it to you in time. Not before the fire takes you.”

My protesting scream rips through the stone belly of the church as they shove me forward?—

—straight against the thick beam waiting for me.

Rough hands wrench my arms back, the coarse bite of rope grinding into raw skin.

They bind me tight to the beam, my shoulders pressed hard against the splintered wood until I can feel every jag digging into bone.

Each pull of the rope squeezes the air out of me a little more, cinching me down, making me part of the pyre.

Cormac prowls in front of me, his smile stretched wide, casual as sin. The flick of his silver Zippo clicks open, closed, open again—flame flaring before he snaps it out with a flick of his wrist. He toys with it like a boy with a new prize, waiting for his moment.

“Ledger, Ledger, Ledger,” he muses, voice echoing off the stone.

“All those fine ladies and gents blowin’ to kingdom come.

Wonder if they were still scrubbin’ their faces in the spa when the fire kissed ’em.

Or maybe mid-fuck upstairs—burnin’ with their cocks still out.

Ah, poetic, aye?” He laughs, sharp and cruel.

His men chuckle too, low and mean, though their eyes keep darting to the flames dancing from his lighter.

My stomach knots. I jerk against the bindings, chest heaving, eyes scanning the dark corners of the basement. Dust. Stone. Broken pews, cobwebs strung like shrouds. Nothing I can use. Nothing to save me. The scant light comes from the crackling lighter and then—a crash above. Shouts.

We all freeze.

Boots pounding, voices raised, echoing down through the floorboards. Gunfire comes sudden and sharp, rattling the ceiling dust down into my hair.

Hope bursts inside me like oxygen.

Killian.

It has to be.

Cormac stiffens, then snarls, spitting orders over his shoulder. “Go! Don’t let him near. Put him in the fucking ground!”

Two of his men rush for the stairs, weapons drawn, boots thundering upward. That leaves him. Him and three shadows lingering at his flanks.

Cormac turns back to me, grin returning slow and vicious. He steps close enough that I can feel the heat of the flame he coaxes to life again with his lighter, the tiny fire that promises so much worse. His eyes glitter with hate and triumph.

“Let’s give him a proper welcome, eh?” He winks, almost tender in its mockery?—

—and flicks the burning Zippo down into the dry kindling at my feet.

The pyre answers with a hungry roar.

The fire crackles—hungry, eager—curling up the brittle edges of the stacked wood. Smoke begins to sting my eyes, acrid and sharp, searing my lungs with every gasp. The heat licks closer and soon will be chasing up my legs. The air is heavy with ash and the stink of old rot and burning mildew.

Cormac lingers, arms folded like he’s watching a stage play instead of orchestrating my death. His expression is smug, satisfied, the flames mirrored in his eyes. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, like this is art.

I wrench against the ropes until they tear my skin raw. My wrists are slick with blood, but the knots hold. My throat tightens around a sob. This is it. This is how I die.

And then—a sound.

Low. Rough. A growl that doesn’t belong in any church, not even one blackened with sin.

The edges of the room seem to darken, a burst of shadow swallowing the meager light. Two flashes explode in the dark— gunfire—and one of Cormac’s men drops with a wet grunt, body folding into the dirt.

Then he’s there.

Killian.

He barrels into another guard like a battering ram, the two of them crashing into the stacked timbers.

They go down in a brutal tangle of fists and fury.

Another guard yanks his weapon free, muzzle sparking as shots ring out.

Bullets ricochet, stone spits dust, the sound deafening in the close chamber.

“Get in there, you useless shite!” Cormac roars, shoving the gunman toward the fight.

Then his attention slides back to me.

He snatches a length of wood from the pyre, its end already lit and spitting embers.

With deliberate care, he thrusts it into the voids around me—dark corners of stacked timber that the fire hasn’t yet touched.

Flames crawl greedily over fresh fuel, climbing higher, closer, eager to swallow me whole.

Panic claws through me. I cough, lungs raw, heat blistering against my shins. My mind races for escape, for hope.

But maybe… maybe the stale, dank air of this basement will be my saving grace. Maybe the smothering dark, the lack of breath, will keep the fire starving—will buy me the seconds Killian needs.

If it doesn’t—no. I can’t think of that.

The fight crashes around me, violent and unrelenting. The guns run dry, and the men are fighting with their fists now.

Killian against two—fists and fury echoing like thunder in this stone tomb. Every time he swings, his gaze flicks to me—panic in his eyes, desperation carved into his face. He knows. He knows I have minutes, maybe less, before the flames devour me.

Cormac smirks, inspired by the discarded furniture littering the open room, and heaves a tall cabinet into the blaze.

It topples with a crash, wood splintering, glass doors shattering as it slams against my side and the stacked timber around me.

The fire leaps higher, swallowing greedily.

The sharp edge of glass punches deep into my thigh.

My scream tears out but dies against the gag, strangled and useless.

I look down, chest heaving, and see the shard—long, jagged, buried to the hilt in muscle. My hands tremble so hard I can barely keep focus, but I know. I can use it. It missed anything vital. It’s sharp. It’s hope.

I push everything else—the fire, Cormac, Killian—to the back of my mind and fix on the shard.

My fingers close around it, slippery with sweat and soot.

I pull. My body jerks in revolt, pain blazing up my thigh, so raw it steals the breath from my lungs.

My muffled scream burns my throat, tears flooding my smoke-stung eyes.

I can do this.

I breathe steady through my nose, force my hands back. Fix my grip and pull.

The torment is white-hot and searing, but I wrench it free, careful not to let it slip from my shaking hands. The shard drips with my blood, slick and red, but it’s mine. It’s salvation.

I twist it against the ropes binding my torso—sawing, sawing. Each drag slices my palms open further, blood mixing with soot, the shard threatening to slide loose. I grit my teeth, hold on, force it down, again and again.

“Cormac!” Killian calls out to his brother.

I look up—his gray eyes lock on mine just as a fist crashes into his gut, folding him over, another smashing across his face. The men seize his arms, holding him wide open.

It works. Cormac stops throwing things into the fire and steps toward him.

I can’t hear his words over the roar of fire, but I see the grin. The promise.

I can’t stop. I can’t let the fire touch me, can’t let him fall. The flames crawl higher, licking at my arms, singeing my skin. My clothes will catch soon. Once they do, it’s over.

I saw harder, sobs shaking me, tears blurring my vision. I don’t look away. Can’t. Even as the fire sears closer, even as Killian bleeds. I keep sawing, desperate, frantic?—

Until the rope gives with a snap.

It slacks, falling away from my torso. My arms wrench upward, pushing the coil higher until I can duck and slide out from under it. My wrists are still bound tight, skin flayed raw, but I’m free of the beam.

The fire rages behind me, heat blistering at my back. The cut in my thigh throbs with every movement, blood slicking my leg, but I can move. I stumble, eyes searching—anywhere to jump, to roll, to throw myself clear of the pyre before it swallows me whole.

The toppled cabinet becomes my salvation. Its splintered side juts just far enough from the pyre to give me a foothold.

I steady myself, rope-burned wrists clumsy, thigh screaming with every move. My balance falters, but I push. Jump.

The injured leg drags me down like an anchor.

I don’t make the distance I need. My lower leg plunges into the fire, heat searing through denim as flames clutch hungrily at my calf.

Pain tears a scream from my throat as I roll, slapping frantically until the blaze dies, leaving scorched patches across my jeans.

But I’m out. Free.

I rip the gag from my mouth, chest heaving, lungs aching for air. My voice rips raw, louder than the roar of the fire.

“Killian!”

Two of Cormac’s men hold him wide, his arms stretched, his face bloodied—his lip split, blood running in a dark line from his brow down the scar carved there years before.

He looks up when he hears me.

And something changes.

The pain is still there, but beneath it is iron. Determination. Rage sharpened to a single point.

He surges, using their hold against them, and drives his boot into Cormac’s chest. The impact cracks like thunder, sending his brother flying backward toward the furnace he created.

He doesn’t stop.

An elbow smashes into one guard’s face, the crunch of breaking bone echoing in the chamber.

The man howls, blood pouring from his ruined nose.

Killian turns his head, slamming his skull into the other man’s with brutal precision.

The guard reels, dazed, and Killian’s fist follows, crushing across his jaw and sending him stumbling.

The man staggers. Trips over debris. Falls?—

And I move before I think.

The shard is still in my hand, slick with my blood. I raise it high and chase him down, the world narrowing to fire, smoke, and survival.

When his body slams against the concrete, I drive the glass deep into his neck. It slides through flesh and sinew, crunching against the ground beneath as it bursts out the other side. The shard shatters, jagged edges cracking, blood flooding hot over my hand.

The man jerks once, twice, then goes still.

I stay there, shaking, breath ragged, staring at what I’ve done.

And when I lift my head, my eyes lock with Killian’s across the smoke and fire.