Chapter 536
Chapter 536:
Skye hung in her seatbelt, blood rushing to her head. She blinked, trying to clear the black spots dancing in her vision. Through the shattered window, she saw boots hit the pavement. Heavy, deliberate boots.
A face appeared. Not a paramedic. Not police.
Vargo.
He looked worse for wear, his face bruised, but his eyes were alive with a terrifying, professional indifference. He wasn’t dead. And neither was his loyalty.
“Cut her out,” Vargo ordered someone behind him. “Leave the rest p>
Skye tried to scream, tried to reach for Alistair, but darkness swarmed her peripheral vision. A needle jabbed into her neck. The last thing she saw was Alistair’s hand reaching for her across the roof of the crushed car, before the black tide pulled her under.
The darkness wasn’t a void anymore. It was a heavy, suffocating blanket that smelled of antiseptic and stale fear.
Skye Sterling floated in it, not because she was unconscious, but because moving meant acknowledging the pain radiating from her temples, where her head had slammed against the window during the ambush. She kept her breathing shallow. Rhythmically precise. Inhale for four counts. Hold for four. Exhale for four.
“She’s out cold,” a voice muttered. It was clinical, detached. The private doctor Lucian had summoned to this godforsaken safe house.
There was a rustle of fabric, the click of a stethoscope being packed away. “It’s just temporary, shock-induced syncope. Her vitals are stable, though her cortisol levels are through the roof. She needs rest, Mr. Graves p>
“Rest,” another voice repeated. This one was deeper, smoother, but laced with the jagged edge of a razor blade and the desperation of a man whose empire was crumbling by the hour.
Lucian Graves.
Skye felt his presence before she heard him. The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. He was standing right beside the bed. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, a stark contrast to the cold intent in his voice.
“She doesn’t get to rest,” Lucian said softly. “Not yet p>
𝗣𝖣F𝗌 о𝗻 𝘣е.с𝗼m
“Lucian, for God’s sake,” a third voice interrupted. It was impatient, accompanied by the restless clacking of expensive Italian leather shoes against the floor tiles.
Dominic Thorne.
“Stop staring at her like you’re deciding which limb to remove first. We have business. And frankly, looking at the news reports about the FBI raid on your penthouse, we don’t have much time p>
“This is business, Dominic,” Lucian replied, not moving. “This woman just cost me… everything p>
“She’s a liability,” Dominic scoffed. The sound of his pacing was maddening. Click, click, turn, click, click. “You should have let Vargo finish her when you had the chance. Now you’re dragging dead weight around while my capital is sitting in limbo p>
“The contract isn’t signed, Graves,” Dominic continued, his tone sharpening. “My partners are getting nervous. The explosion at the casino, the rumors about the data breach, it’s messy. I don’t like messy. You’re toxic assets right now, Lucian p>
Skye lay perfectly still, but her mind was racing, firing synapses like a machine gun.
Dominic Thorne. Alistair’s cousin. The man who had usurped the Thorne family legacy. He was here. He was pushing Lucian.
“You think this is messy?” Lucian turned away from the bed. Skye heard the soft whoosh of air as he moved. “Messy is what happens when you walk out that door without signing, Dominic. Today I’m not in the mood for negotiation. I’m in the mood for execution p>