Then she saw it. A camera was wheeled in, its lens trained on her. One of the men adjusted the focus. No. She realized what they intended.

They were going to film it. Her stomach twisted in horror. Alex—that bastard!

Alex loomed over her by the cot.

His eyes ablaze, fixated on the rise and fall of her chest.

If it weren't for the scars of what he'd become, he might have tried to savor this moment.

And this was her fault. He turned to his men. "Strip her."

"Got it, boss!"

Alex's men closed in, their hands reaching for Tilda's clothes.

Buttons popped, and fabric tore, the harsh sounds echoing through the warehouse Like gunshots. A wave of humiliation crashed over her, her body trembling as cold air hit her bare skin.

Tilda's face turned pale.

"Stop them, Alex! Now!" she screamed, voice cracking with rage and desperation.

But Alex's eyes gleamed with twisted pleasure. "Tilda," he drawled, "save your strength. You're going to need it soon."

A chill crept across her chest as her blouse was peeled away, and hot tears welled in her eyes, slipping silently down her cheeks.

"Lyndon... where are you? Please.. come save me," she whispered under her breath.

Just then, the warehouse doors slammed open. A thunderous bang echoed through the space as Lyndon stormed in, a steel pipe clutched in his hand, his face set in a mask of burning fury.

His silhouette cut through the dim light like a blade, his shadow stretching across the floor like an omen.

Tilda's head turned sharply. "Lyndon!" she cried, her voice breaking.

Lyndon's jaw clenched. His lips pressed into a rigid line, his grip on the pipe so tight his knuckles turned white.

"Let her go, Alex," he said coldly. "Or I swear—no one walks out of here alive."

Alex didn't flinch. He remained lounging in his chair, legs crossed, relaxed as ever.

"Lyndon," he said lazily, "do you honestly think you scare me? I planned to kill you tonight anyway."

The warehouse was crawling with over twenty of Alex's men, each one armed, dressed in black, standing like sentinels of violence.

Lyndon, in his rush, had only managed to bring a handful of his own.

If this turned into a fight-it would be a slaughter.