Page 25 of Unbound By You (The Viper’s MC #1)

HARLOW

B ulldozing through the door, I hit the ground hard just as the sharp crack of a gunshot slices through the air. The bullet whizzes past my head by mere inches. It’s a near miss, but a miss nonetheless.

He’s not alone in here. I didn’t expect him to be. Two goons, probably sharing a single brain cell, barrel toward me. Their bulky frames might be suitable for intimidating rival businessmen, but all that muscle just slows them down.

I manage to get a shot off, and the first one staggers before stopping in his tracks. Then, the second slams into my side, sending me tumbling over an armchair. My body, flooded with adrenaline, doesn’t register the pain yet. I crash to the floor with a heavy thud.

Then his hands are around my throat, crushing down with everything he’s got. Of course, this is how he’d try to overpower me: brute force. I wrestle my gun into position against his ribs, but before I can squeeze the trigger, a deep voice cuts through the tussle from above.

“That’s enough!”

But the man on top of me doesn’t budge. He doesn’t care that his boss just gave him a direct order. I inch my finger toward the trigger and a loud pop cracks through the room. The weight on my throat slackens as he crumples to the side.

I suck in a ragged breath, coughing up a lung. Add bruised trachea to my ever-growing list of injuries today.

“You’re causing quite a scene, little ghost,” the voice says smoothly. “I suppose I should’ve known better after all the jobs you’ve pulled off for me.”

He extends a hand to help me up, but I swat it away.

Climbing to my feet feels like rolling out of bed after an extra intense gym session the day before.

Now that the adrenaline is draining, the pain floods back in all at once, threatening to buckle me where I stand.

But if I give in now, I won’t make it out of this alive.

The bodies are piling up in here, and the amount of gore covering me from head to toe makes me want to walk out and find the nearest source of running water to scrub until my skin peels off to a new, clean layer.

I stumble into the arm of a white leather couch; its frame is the only thing keeping me upright.

I need a minute. And a better plan than banking on three lucky shots to get him alone.

The man I grazed before being tackled like a running back leans heavily against the doorjamb, blood seeping into his shirt.

His associates have returned to their posts in the hallway.

Everyone’s watching me, but his eyes are locked on mine, tracking every shift and likely trying to calculate how much fight I’ve got left.

With the same unnerving calm he always has, he strolls over to a well-stocked drink cart.

He pulls the crystal stopper from a decanter of amber liquid, the sharp scent of whiskey cutting through the tang of blood in the air.

After pouring two glasses, he offers one to me.

I take it, balancing it awkwardly on my knee with my left hand.

Too untrusting in his motives to let myself drink it.

However desperate I am for an ounce of pain relief.

He settles into the only surviving armchair, legs crossed in his fancy suit, entirely at ease. He takes a slow sip, then asks, “What now?”

That’s a great fucking question. One I’m still working on.

His gaze pierces through me, unrelenting.

I don’t look away. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

One of his men breezes in from the hall and leans down, whispering something low in his ear.

Whatever it is, he nods once, then tips his head toward the door in silent command.

They both slip away into the depths of the house.

The odds just shifted back in my favor.

“You’re bleeding on my rug. Go clean yourself up,” he barks at the last man still standing.

The man grunts but doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even try to stay and protect his boss.

He probably thinks I’m too wrecked to be a threat.

I can’t blame him. I look like I’ve gone a few rounds with a meat grinder.

Meanwhile, his boss is lounging like this is just another Sunday afternoon meeting at the country club.

“This only proves how right I was about you, Harlow,” he says smoothly, his voice laced with arrogance.

“You were meant to be mine, little ghost. The perfect wife for a man like me. Someone who could work by my side, stomach the kind of life I lead, on both sides of the bedroom door. I’ve no doubt you’d outlast any of the other whores I’ve bought. You’re good for business.”

“Too bad someone beat you to the punch,” I reply, lifting the forgotten glass in my hand just enough to show off the diamond glinting on my ring finger.

His chuckle slides across my nerves like a razor, light and unbothered on the surface, but there’s something menacing and calculating buried beneath it.

“You can wear his ring while mourning him, little ghost,” he says, pushing up from the chair and strolling back to his desk, settling in like the conversation is finished. “I’ve never been fond of widows, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

The weight of his words lingers, suspended in the air between us. Before I’ve fully processed them, the heavy crystal tumbler in my hand is already flying across the room. It smashes into the wall behind him as he ducks out of its path.

But that split second of distraction is all I need.

I force my aching body out of the chair and stagger as quickly as I can toward the door.

I slam into the wall, catching myself with trembling hands, struggling for balance and clarity.

My vision blurs, but I blink hard, forcing my gaze to lock on the hallway ahead.

Silas is here. He has to be. Hopefully not alone, but either way, I need to find him. And fast because the steady, unhurried steps sounding behind me are too close for comfort.

My toes hit the curve of the top step, and momentum takes over as I launch myself down the stairs.

But halfway down, I’m yanked back hard. A brutal grip tangles in my hair, and pain explodes across my scalp, ripping through my head like lightning.

I go down in a crumpled heap, limbs twisting awkwardly.

My ribs slam against a solid edge, and then it’s a blur of tangled limbs as we tumble violently onto the foyer below.

My back hits the cold marble floor with a bone-jarring thud, and he crashes down on top of me, driving what little air I have left from my lungs.

“I guess we’re starting our games early,” he groans, pushing himself up far more quickly than I can manage.

My hand is empty. The gun I stole earlier now lies across the room, gleaming under the muted light like a cruel joke. He follows my gaze, and the calm mask he’s been wearing finally slips away. What’s left is hungry and monstrous.

My blood turns to ice. For the first time since I walked into Macon’s hours ago, doubt creeps in. Maybe I won’t make it out of this—at least not how I planned.

I can’t stay down. I know that much. But there isn’t a single inch of me that isn’t screaming in pain. My ribs throb. My shoulder feels dislocated, and my trembling legs refuse to listen to the commands I’m yelling at them in my head.

Still, I press my palms to the floor, trying to drag myself backward. The blood-soaked leather clings to the slick marble, holding me in place. I barely slide more than a few inches before he looms over me again.

He drops to his knees, hands fumbling at the button of my jeans.

Fuck. No.

Beaten and broken, I refuse to let this man add that to the list. Rage surges through me, giving me enough strength to continue the fight.

My hands claw at his face, nails raking across his cheek, and my hips buck upward to shove him off me.

I twist and thrash beneath him, kicking and spitting, absolutely feral.

My arm bends at a terrible angle, but my fingers brush the ridge of salvation: the hairpin knife in my back pocket. It feels like a prayer answered in steel.

He doesn’t notice. He’s too focused and determined. His lust-fueled grunts blow hot against my face. His hard cock strains against his thin trousers, pressing into me as he continues trying to force my submission.

I let out a guttural, primal scream and drive the knife into his side, hoping it hits something vital.

He rears back, clutching at the wound to staunch the bleeding.

His weight falls away from me, and I funnel my rage into moving as quickly as I can.

I’m inches away, my fingertips ghosting against the textured grip, when a hand clamps around my ankle, yanking me backward.

I react on instinct. My free foot snaps backward, connecting with his face.

The sharp crack of breaking bone joins the chorus of the groans and gasps we’re both sputtering out.

I'm hyper-focused, running on desperation. Tears streak down my cheeks, blurring what little vision I still cling to. But hope sparks in my chest as my fingers close around the butt of the gun. A sigh of relief billows past my lips.

“Harlow!”

I’d recognize that voice anywhere. That deep, familiar call slices through my panic like a lifeline.

Then, a firm pressure grips my leg. The weight of him crawling over me sends agony lancing through my bruised ribs, ripping a scream from deep inside my chest. I roll onto my back, forcing us face to face.

“Fuck. You.”

The gun fires again and again, and my ears ring with each deafening blast. My stomach revolts, unable to handle another assault. I don’t even register the gun running empty until the slide snaps back, and the metallic click-click-click follows.

I collapse against the marble floor, the chill seeping through my clothes, or maybe that's just more blood. I let my good eye fall shut. There’s nothing left in me. Every ounce of energy drains away.