Page 11 of Gambit
“Fuck off!” I spit the words at him like they’re venom. He presses down harder, and I feel the first tear of fabric as he rips the dress further. The cool slide of his fingers against my skin makes me gag. Fear spikes, but so does my backbone.
I’m Eliza Hughes, and I don’t fucking break—not for him, not for anyone.
My chest heaves, every breath a struggle as I squirm beneath Franks’ weight. His hands roam without restraint, his body a barrier to my freedom. But I can’t—I won’t—let fear paralyse me. I refuse to go down without a fight. If he wants to get his cock in me, he’s going to have to work for it.
“Keep still!” Franks barks, but his words are white noise.
I throw my head back, trying to catch sight of anything I can use to my advantage. The room spins with the struggle as I manage to twist enough to throw him off me, but then, in the next second, I’m on my back again, Franks’ body heavy on me.
“Get off me!” I scream, thrashing beneath him. My legs kick out, and my heel connects with something—I don’t care as long as it hurts him. I need to hurt him enough to get away.
His hands are like vices, tearing at the fabric of my dress, exposing skin that shivers not from desire but from the cold touch of fear. His fingers are everywhere, leaving trails of terror as they inch closer to my pussy.
“Filthy bitch,” he snarls, a twisted grin slicing across his face as one hand gropes at my breast while the other creeps lower.
“Keep touching me, and you’re dead,” I spit out, defiance my shield against the dread clawing at my insides. But even as I threaten him, I know I’m in deep trouble. I might be Queen of Castle, a badass bitch who will cut your throat as soon as you look at me, but right now, I’m just a woman trapped and bound under a psycho who has an advantage over me that includes having his hands free.
His fingers grip the edge of my panties, and I let out a raw scream, not of submission but of pure rage, as I buck against him, fighting for this not to end how I think it’s going to end.
7
JAMES
Our target is an old cottage,a good stretch away from the townhouse. The seconds are ticking away as the sun rises higher. We have to move.
“Let’s gear up.” Raphael’s command is quiet, he is holding onto every shred of control he has left, much like the rest of us. He will unleash when we find Franks. We all will.
I grab a handgun and slide it into the holster at my back. The rest of the boys do the same, each movement deliberate. There is no room for error, not today.
Picking up my case, I murmur, “Into the Jeep. Oliver, you’re driving.” My words cut through the tension like a knife. Leaving the team to pack up and get out, we leave the townhouse and pile into the Jeep, the heavy doors slamming shut behind us. I catch Oliver’s eye in the driver’s seat, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He nods once, and we’re off, the engine roaring to life beneath us.
We’re silent as Oliver pushes the Jeep hard over the roads. Every guy in this vehicle is loaded for war—pistols, knives, the lot. They say nothing, but their silence speaks volumes. Each one is ready to bleed, to kill, for Eliza.
I keep my hand on top of the metal case, mind racing but clear.
We’re coming, Eliza. Just hold on a little longer.
Minutes later, Oliver slams the brakes, and the Jeep skids to a gravelly stop. I’m out before the engine cuts, scanning the tree line. The cottage squats in the distance, deserted, a perfect place for murder.
“Foot from here,” I mutter, and the guys follow. We move quickly, low, through the brush.
I lead, my senses sharpened. Every shadow could be a threat, every rustle a warning. We need eyes inside to confirm our target.
We reach the field opposite the cottage, the grass swaying like it knows secrets. We pause. The urgency is a live wire in my veins, pushing me forward, but I hold back, waiting for the right moment.
The grass flattens under my boots as I make my way to a spot with a clear view. I drop to one knee and pull the rifle case close. It’s time. No words are needed, each move counts. My fingers work over the latches, and the case pops open. Inside, the pieces of my sniper rifle lie cold, detached. But not for long.
I snatch up the stock, it nestles into my shoulder like it’s made for me. Barrel’s next, screws on tight, no wobble. The scope clicks into place. Each piece fit like a puzzle, a deadly one. I check the chamber, slide in the magazine—full, as always.
Breath steady, I crawl to position, rest the rifle on the support. Through the scope now, the world narrows down to circles and lines. The cottage swims into view, the windows stare back at me as I adjust.
Movement.
Eliza bound hands behind her, but still, a whirlwind, and Franks, that scum, on top of her as she fights like a hellcat.
Rage coils inside me, ice cold. He’s dead.
“Go.”
