The tears were still wet on her cheeks, but her eyes were completely devoid of fear. The alcohol and the trauma had pushed her past the point of panic. She was in a state of pure, feral survival.
She didn’t speak. She grabbed the half-empty tequila bottle by the neck and slammed it against the sharp metal edge of the bar. The thick glass glanced off with a dull thud. A guttural sob of frustration escaped her lips. She swung it again, and then a third time, her entire body shaking with the effort, until the glass finally shattered with a sharp, satisfying crack. Tequila sprayed across the counter.
Ayla spun around on the stool and thrust the jagged, broken glass neck directly toward the biker’s throat, stopping less than an inch from his carotid artery.
“Touch me again,” she whispered, her voice a demonic, terrifying rasp, “and I will push this through your neck.”
The biker froze. His eyes widened in shock. The sheer, suicidal madness radiating from this tiny woman made his instincts scream.
But the shock only lasted a second.
“You crazy bitch!” he roared.
He stepped back, and instantly the four other bikers dropped their cues and rushed over, forming a tight, suffocating semicircle around Ayla’s corner. They trapped her against the bar – five massive, violent men against one exhausted woman holding a broken bottle.
Ayla didn’t lower the glass. She let out a dark, broken laugh. She was ready to die here. She wanted to tear something apart before she went down.
The bearded biker lunged forward to grab her wrist.
The heavy wooden front door of the dive bar exploded inward.
It was kicked with such catastrophic violence that the metal hinges ripped clean out of the doorframe. The wood splintered and smashed against the wall like a gunshot.
The heavy metal music from the jukebox seemed to die instantly. The entire bar froze.
Cassius Gilliam stood in the shattered doorway.
He was wearing a flawlessly tailored midnight-black suit, rain dripping from his broad shoulders. His dark eyes swept the room, radiating a suffocating, homicidal calm. He didn’t look like a billionaire CEO – he looked like the apex predator of a war zone.
Behind him, Marcus, his lead security contractor, stepped into the bar, moving with the silent, terrifying efficiency of a military assassin.
Cassius’s eyes locked onto the corner. He took in the five massive bikers surrounding Ayla, the jagged broken bottle trembling in her hand.
He didn’t say a word. He gave Marcus a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Marcus moved.
He crossed the room in three steps – no yelling, no posturing. He grabbed the bearded biker by the back of his leather vest, spun him around, and drove a devastating open-palm strike directly into the man’s jaw. The sickening crunch of bone echoed in the silent bar. The massive biker’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor like a sack of concrete.
The other four bikers roared and lunged.
It was a massacre. Marcus worked with brutal, hyper-efficient close-quarters precision – shattering a knee with a low kick, dislocating a shoulder with a violent twist, driving an elbow into a sternum. In less than fifteen seconds, all five men were writhing on the dirty floor, groaning in agony.
The bartender backed slowly against the wall, hands raised, too terrified to breathe.
Cassius ignored the bodies on the floor. He walked straight toward the corner of the bar.
Ayla was still on the stool. The adrenaline and the cheap tequila were warring in her bloodstream. She stared at Cassius, chest heaving, grip still white-knuckled around the broken bottle.
Cassius stopped directly in front of her. He looked down at the jagged glass pointed at his chest.
He didn’t flinch. He slowly reached out his large, warm hand and wrapped his fingers over hers, completely ignoring the sharp edges biting into his own skin. He applied steady, immovable pressure until her fingers uncurled.
Ayla let out a shaky breath. The broken bottle slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor.
Cassius immediately unbuttoned his suit jacket, took it off, and wrapped it tightly around her freezing, wet shoulders. The jacket was heavy, carrying the scent of cold mint and expensive tobacco.
Without asking permission, he leaned down, slid one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms. Ayla’s head fell against his chest. Her body was completely spent. She reached out instinctively and grabbed the purple sandalwood box from the counter, clutching it against her stomach.
Cassius carried her out of the bar, stepping over the groaning bikers, and walked out into the freezing rain. He placed her gently into the back seat of the idling armored Maybach, then slid in beside her. The heavy door closed, sealing them in the warm, quiet luxury of the cabin.
“Drive to the East River waterfront,” Cassius ordered the driver.
The Maybach pulled away from the curb.
Cassius turned to Ayla. He pulled a clean white microfiber towel from a hidden compartment and began wiping the mud and rainwater from her face. His movements were rough, but there was a suppressed care behind them that he made no effort to name.
Ayla stared blankly at his sharp jawline. The alcohol was hitting her fully now, stripping away her logic and leaving only raw, bleeding emotion.
She let out a low, cynical laugh.
“You always show up when I’m in the mud,” she whispered, her words slightly slurred.
The Maybach came to a smooth stop on the desolate edge of the East River. Across the black water, the glittering Manhattan skyline mocked them with its untouchable wealth.
Cassius pressed a button, rolling his window down an inch. The freezing river wind sliced into the warm cabin.
“I need you to sober up, Ayla,” he said, his voice a harsh, unforgiving rasp. “If my surveillance team hadn’t flagged the last swipe of your emergency MetroCard, cross-referenced it with every camera within a ten-block radius, and traced your movements to that godforsaken neighborhood, you would be dead.”
The cold air hit Ayla’s face. It didn’t sober her. It ignited the reckless, self-destructive fire burning in her chest.
She turned her head and looked at Cassius through half-closed, heavy eyes – a gaze that was purely provocative, fueled by the agonizing need to feel something other than pain.
Ayla suddenly lunged forward.
She grabbed the lapels of his crisp white dress shirt and pulled him violently toward her, closing the distance until their noses were nearly touching.
“Is this what you want?” she whispered, her voice dropping an octave, thick with dark seduction. “You want to own me? You want to take what Axel threw away?”
Cassius’s entire body went rigid. His pupils dilated rapidly, swallowing the dark brown of his eyes. His breathing hitched, loud in the quiet car. His gaze dropped to her lips, his jaw tightening.
“Axel’s biggest obsession is my loyalty,” Ayla taunted, her hands sliding up to grip the back of his neck. “If I give myself to his worst enemy tonight – if I let you ruin me – it will break his mind completely.”
She tilted her head up, closed her eyes, her lips parting slightly as she leaned in.
Just as her lips brushed his, Cassius violently jerked his head away.
His large hands clamped down on her shoulders. He shoved her backward, pinning her hard against the leather seat. He leaned over her, chest heaving, the veins in his neck straining against his skin. He was fighting a physiological war against his own desire.
“Do not ever,” Cassius ground out, his voice shaking with violent restraint, “offer yourself to me as a weapon to hurt another man.”
Ayla’s eyes snapped open. The rejection hit her like a physical blow.
More Kickass Romance Reads
Dive into irresistible romance stories packed with possessive heroes, forbidden passion, billionaire obsession, mafia intrigue, and heart-stopping twists. One chapter is never enough—your next addiction starts here.