Dangerously Mine

Chapter 12

Jacob’s arm was still locked around my waist, his grip so firm it felt like he was keeping my shattered pieces together. I wanted to speak—I wanted to ask about the maid, about the blood on my neck, about why the world had turned into a slaughterhouse—but the words died in my throat. I looked up at his profile. His jaw was set, his flint-grey eyes fixed on the digital floor numbers as they flickered downward. He wasn't breathing hard. He wasn't shaking. He was a statue in a white shirt, cold and terrifyingly calm.

The silence in the elevator wasn't a lack of noise; it was a physical weight. No one dared to break it.

Ding.

The doors slid open to the subterranean parking level. The amber service lights hummed overhead, casting long, skeletal shadows across the rows of armored vehicles.

We didn't even make it three steps.

From behind the concrete pillars, three men charged. They weren't like the ones upstairs; these were larger, built like oxen, their faces bared and twisted with a singular, violent purpose.

I felt Jacob shove me back toward the safety of the elevator alcove. "Stay down," he commanded, his voice a low rasp.

I watched, stunned, as he met the first man head-on. Jacob was leaner, smaller than these giants, but he moved with a fluid, lethal grace that made the attackers look like they were moving through water. He parried a heavy blow, using the man’s own momentum to slam his head into the concrete pillar with a sickening crack.

Before the second man could reach him, Jacob pivoted, his foot connecting with the man’s knee in a way that made the bone snap audibly. The attacker went down with a roar of agony, but Jacob didn't stop to admire the work. He was already on the third man.

This one was different. He was faster, a jagged scar running down his cheek, and he held a long, serrated hunting knife.

They collided in a blur of motion. I watched, my back pressed against the cold metal of the elevator, as Jacob fought to keep the blade away from his throat. He caught the man’s wrist, twisting it back, but the attacker was a wall of muscle. He drove his shoulder into Jacob’s chest, pinning him against a parked SUV.

I saw the silver flash of the blade.

Schlick.

I let out a strangled cry. The knife plunged into Jacob’s stomach, deep and jagged. Jacob’s body went rigid for a split second, his breath hitching, a dark stain instantly blossoming across his white shirt.

The man with the scar grinned, a predatory, hideous look. He shoved Jacob aside and turned his gaze toward me. He began to run, the bloody knife held high, his eyes fixed on my throat.

My life didn't flash before my eyes in images; it flashed in feelings. The cold water of the ocean. The attic. The red light. The terror of being a prize for monsters. I closed my eyes, waiting for the end.

But the end didn't come.

A shadow slammed into the man from the side, a force so violent they both went tumbling across the concrete. Despite the hole in his stomach, Jacob had launched himself. He pinned the man to the floor, his hands wrapping around the attacker’s throat with a strength fueled by something beyond adrenaline.

"Who sent you?" Jacob hissed, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together.

The man struggled, gasping for air as Jacob’s grip tightened. "Taking... orders... from the boss..."

"Who is he?" Jacob demanded, his face inches from the man's.

"Your... enemy..." the man wheezed, a bloody smirk on his lips.

Jacob didn't flinch. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried across the silent garage. "What does he want with the girl?"

"To pay... for Theodore’s debt," the man choked out, his face turning a bruised purple. "She’s Santos property. He wants... his collateral."

Jacob’s expression didn't change, but his eyes turned into something ancient and merciless. He looked at the man, then glanced back at me—shaking and covered in the dust of his floor.

"That girl is not Santos property anymore," Jacob said, his voice as cold as the desert at midnight. "She is mine."

Without a second of hesitation, Jacob pulled his handgun, pressed the barrel directly against the man's forehead, and pulled the trigger.

The sound echoed through the garage like a thunderclap. The man’s body went limp.

Jacob stayed there for a moment, kneeling over the corpse, his head bowed. The silence returned, heavier than before. He slowly stood up, one hand pressed firmly over the wound in his stomach, the red blood seeping through his fingers and dripping onto the concrete.

He looked at me, his nonchalance shattered by the sheer exhaustion of staying alive. He didn't say he was sorry. He didn't ask for help. He just stood there, bleeding for a debt I didn't even know I owed, and for the first time, I realized that being "his" was the most dangerous thing I could ever be.