TWENTY-NINE

The moment Wesley’s hand dipped into his pocket, everything changed.

The man with the gun barely had time to react. Wesley didn’t pull a weapon. He didn’t need to. In one fluid move, he grabbed the guy’s wrist and yanked it down hard, twisting until the metal clattered to the ground. Then he slammed his elbow into the guy’s face—once, then again. Bone cracked. The man stumbled back, blood already streaming from his nose.

Before the first guy even hit the floor, the second one lunged.

Wesley turned fast. He grabbed a chair beside the booth and swung it up to block the blow. The impact rattled loud, the sound of wood against flesh. Wesley didn’t give him a second breath—he drove his knee straight into the guy’s ribs, then followed it with a short, sharp jab to the jaw. The man crumpled, choking.

That’s when the chaos exploded.

Screams echoed across the club. Tables overturned. Glass shattered. What was once dim, moody lighting became a flickering mess of shadows and panic.

People ran—some toward exits, others just out of instinct. A woman tripped over a stool and crawled toward the bar. A man yelled for security, but no one was coming. No one wanted to get involved in whatever this was.

And right in the middle of it—Wesley.

He moved like he belonged in this. No hesitation. No fear. Just calculated, brutal force.

I backed into the booth, crouching low. My heart thundered in my ears. I didn’t know where to look. Every few seconds, someone flew past—fists flying, people shoving, voices shouting over the music.

Wesley had already moved on to the next one, dodging a wild punch, then slamming the guy’s head into the corner of a table. Another tried to grab him from behind, but Wesley spun, caught him by the collar, and threw him across a row of chairs.

He made it look easy.

But it wasn’t. This wasn’t some slick movie fight. There was blood. Real bruises. The kind of sounds that stick with you after the adrenaline wears off.

And I couldn’t stop watching.

I’d seen Wesley cold. I’d seen him calculated. But I’d never seen him like this.

Like a man with nothing to lose.

Like he’d done this before.

A dozen times.

And he was winning. Fast.

More of them poured in.

At least four. Maybe five. I knew those faces—hard, familiar, terrifying. Marco’s men. They moved like they knew the layout, like they’d planned this.

Wesley was already breathing heavier, blood smeared on his cheek, shirt untucked and hanging off one shoulder. But he didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. He spun around just as one of the men threw a punch, caught it mid-air, and twisted the guy’s arm until he screamed. Then Wesley slammed his fist into his face—once, twice—until the man dropped.

Another came at him from the side, but Wesley ducked and swept the guy’s legs out from under him. The man landed with a sickening crack against the floor.

Still, there were more. Too many.

I stood frozen by the booth, hands pressed to the backrest, watching Wesley move through the fight like he was born for it. But he couldn’t be everywhere. Not at once.

That’s when I saw it.

One of them had circled around—stealthy, quiet—slipping through the smoke and flickering lights. He was behind Wesley now. Wesley didn’t see him. No one did.

My breath caught.

The man pulled something from his jacket—small, fast, glinting under the red lights.

I didn’t think. I didn’t have time to.

I grabbed the nearest bottle off the table—half full, thick glass—and stepped forward.

With all the force I had, I smashed it against his head.

It shattered with a sharp crack, spraying glass and liquor. The man stumbled, blinking, dazed. His hand went to his temple, then he turned—toward me.

He looked furious.

And huge.

I backed up, suddenly aware of how stupid that move had been. My legs wouldn’t move. My chest locked. I couldn’t breathe.

He stepped forward.

I didn’t even see Wesley move.

Just felt the tap—a hand on the man’s shoulder. The guy turned.

Wesley’s right hook landed square on his jaw.

The man dropped like a stone.

No pause. No warning. One hit. Out cold.

Wesley exhaled hard, swiping a streak of blood off his cheek with the back of his hand.

Then he grabbed my wrist, firm but not rough. “We need to go. Now.”

I nodded, still shaking, adrenaline roaring through my ears.

We didn’t look back.

We ran through the back exit of the club, Wesley still gripping my hand like he wasn’t letting go.

The alarms blared behind us—loud, shrill, broken. A warning and a scream all at once. Smoke filled the hall. People yelled. Glass crunched under our shoes.

The bouncer was gone.

No one tried to stop us. No one asked questions. No one even looked our way.

Wesley shoved open the side door and we were outside—just like that. The air was colder now, sharp against my skin. My heart was still racing. My fingers ached from how tight I’d held the bottle.

We got into the car. He started it with one hand, blood dried on the other. His jaw was tight, eyes forward.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did I.

He pulled out fast, tires skimming the curb. We sped through the city, headlights off for the first few blocks, turning sharply, cutting corners, weaving through traffic like he’d done this a hundred times before.

Maybe he had.

The city lights passed us in a blur. The longer we drove, the quieter it felt. Like the danger had faded… but the storm hadn’t passed.

My heart still hadn’t slowed.

I glanced at him. He was calm again. Unbothered. Cool as ever, like what just happened was nothing more than a blip in his evening plans.

It made me feel sick.

By the time the mansion gates opened in the distance, something in me snapped.

The car rolled in like usual, tires whispering over the stone driveway, headlights slicing through the early night.

But nothing about this felt usual.

I looked at him. Really looked.

One hand on the wheel. Jaw bruised. Shirt still untucked. Cuts on his cheek.

He looked like a man who just walked through hell and barely got touched.

And somehow… he still had the nerve to look like everything was fine.

I felt the words building in my chest.

This time, I wasn’t swallowing them.

No more games.

No more pretending.

He used me again.

And I was done being the pawn.