Page 27 of The Lasso Master

And nothing—nothing—stayed between him and Harper.

And Harper?

She was somewhere inside.

The auction room smelled like money and rot—like expensive cigars, and sweat soaked into velvet.

The kind of opulence that covered up the stench of desperation with gold leaf and polished mahogany. Gilded chandeliers glittered overhead, dripping with crystals that reflected cruelty. Below them, cages lined the walls, some empty, others occupied, all lit with a theatrical glow that made the victims look like exhibits.

A low hum filled the space—soft music, quiet murmurs, and the occasional laugh that didn't quite sound human. The crowd, dressed in tuxedos and silks, sipped rare whiskey, awaiting the auction items to arrive on stage. Reed’s stomach twisted with revulsion. His jaw tightened, every muscle in his body screaming to act. They were predators cloaked in elegance, their smiles slick with entitlement. Every polished shoe, every casually lifted glass, reeked of complicity in something monstrous. It wasn’t just the bodies in cages that sickened him—it was the casual acceptance, the theater of control. He filed every face away. He'd remember. And someday soon, they'd pay. It was a performance, a ceremony of indulgence and ownership.

Reed scanned the room, jaw clenched so tight it ached, every muscle in his body strung tight with anticipation and rage. And then—there. Across the gilded floor, inside one of the cages like she was nothing more than merchandise.

His heart stuttered. His blood surged.

Cuffed. Blindfolded. Barefoot. A thin collar tag hanging at her throat like a leash. Bruised, but unbroken. Stripped of armor, but still burning with that fierce defiance he knew like the sound of her breath.

Harper.

His focus sharpened, locking onto a single target. The crowd became smears of shadow and light. The chandeliers above lost their glint. The scent of cologne, sweat, and smoke vanishedunder the surge of adrenaline. The danger didn’t disappear—it pressed in around him like a vice—but it couldn’t distract him.

All he could see was her.

The cage—iron bars polished to a cruel shine. The cuffs—too tight, digging into reddened skin. And the trembling in her knees, not from fear, but from sheer endurance. From what she had endured. From the razor-thin thread of willpower she held onto. Exhaustion painted her in pale hues, but it hadn’t broken her. Not yet. That part of her—the fire, the steel—still burned in the set of her shoulders, even as her body swayed.

The rest of the world—the opulence, the bidding, the vile audience—it all blurred into static. The heavy press of bodies, the gleam of gold, the sour tang of expensive whiskey—none of it mattered.

Only she remained clear. Harper.

She sat too still, too quiet. Not broken, but brittle, like one more breath might shatter her.

His vision narrowed when he saw her—tuned to the rise and fall of her chest, the bare skin beneath her collar, the slight twitch in her fingers that told him she was still fighting. Still alive. And barely holding on.

He moved faster than thought. Three steps. A shot to the head of the handler. Another to the guard.

He was at the cage before their bodies hit the floor, ripping the lock apart with a mini-crowbar he’d tucked into his belt. The steel groaned, then snapped. She was slumped inside, wrists and ankles bound. He dropped to his knees, cut the restraints with a knife, and caught her as she sagged forward.

Then she was in his arms.

She stiffened at first—blind, dazed. "I've got you little thief." She melted the moment his voice hit her ear.

He swept her up in his arms and carried her out while chaos erupted around them.

Once the plane had landed in San Antonio, they didn’t go straight to a hospital. Not with her curled against him like that, clinging to consciousness, with fingers digging into his shoulder.

Paramedics met them on the airstrip, but the second they moved in with a stretcher and saline bag, Harper shook her head. "No needles. No stretchers. No questions," she rasped.

Reed stepped in front of them before they could argue. "She said no. We’re done here."

"Just get me home," she whispered. "Your bed. No lights. No voices. Just… you."

He nodded once. That was something he could do.

She barely made it into the SUV, head resting against the window as they sped back to the estate. Every few minutes, Reed glanced her way, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just breathed.

When they finally pulled through the gates, and into the long drive, her fingers brushed his arm. Once inside, Reed carried her into his room. His bed. The place no one else had touched. She lay scraped, silent, curled into herself.

He shut the door.

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