“You don’t have to worry about me. Look after yourself,” he muttered as he pulled open the iron-gate and shoved her into the cold night.
“Go!” he barked.
“Hope I see you alive next time,” he added, before slamming the gate shut.
Scarlett didn’t hesitate. She slid into the driver’s seat, her hands steady enough as she slammed the door and floored the accelerator into the dark.
She didn’t know where to go. If she didn’t find Victor, she would be dead in seven days.
She turned the wheel toward the one place she least wanted to go. But it didn’t take long for the checkpoints to lock down—Ryan had noticed she’d disappeared.
For a heartbeat, she worried about Tristan. Then headlights seared her from behind. Five black SUVs boxed her in on a desolate stretch of road, dust billowing around them.
Ryan stepped out, framed by moonlight, the barrel of his gun a cold shadow aimed at her. His eyes were darker than the night.
“So eager to get back to Victor? You even bribed my people to help you escape.” His voice was flat steel.
Before she could explain, a shot rang out—the bullet finding her shoulder with clinical precision.
Pain erupted. She staggered and crumpled to the ground.