Strong hands seized her, spinning her around. Evelyn's heart slammed against her ribs. She struggled, but the men were trained, merciless. She fought with every ounce of strength, but one of Monks' goons pressed a iron stick to her shoulder, pain radiating sharp and immediate.
Monks stepped closer, holding a stick, his eyes dark, calculating.
"Let go off me, please" she struggled her heart racing too fast.
She cursed herself, you could have been more secretive not this stupid, you were caught too quickly. If you die, you caused your death Evelyn
The stick clicked against the floor as he advanced, and Evelyn's breath hitched. She stared into his eyes, noting the cruel amusement there, the anticipation of fear.
Maybe this isn't the end of the investigation… maybe this is the end of me, she thought, panic and resolve warping together in her chest.
Her mind raced—Dallas had warned her, Silas had rejected her offer, and the men plotting here would not hesitate. Yet, she had proof, a witness, and every word on that recorder. She could still turn this nightmare into leverage. But first, she had to survive.
Monks' cruel smirk widened as he finally spoke, the stick tapping against the tiles.
"You shouldn't have come here, girl. Curiosity… it kills more than mice."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed, fury cutting through the fear. Not today. Not without a fight.
" Tell me, who are you?" One of the men barked.
Talk!" Monks barked, the stick tapping against the floor like a warning. "Little bird, think you can sneak into my territory and get away?"
Evelyn's jaw tightened. She forced herself to meet his cold gaze, even as her shoulder throbbed and her ribs protested every shallow breath. Every instinct screamed to run, but running wasn't an option. She had to survive.
She had to get the evidence out.
One of Monks' men shoved her forward, guiding her toward a grimy corner of the room. The walls were cracked, the floor sticky with old spills, and a heavy iron cage sat waiting, its rusted bars yawning like a mouth.
"Here," another growled, shoving her inside. She stumbled, hitting the bars with her shoulder, wincing at the pain. Her recorder and notes had been hastily tucked into her jacket—thankfully, she hadn't lost them in the scuffle. Clutching them to her chest, she sank to the floor, trying to calm the storm in her lungs and the pounding of her heart.
Monks loomed outside the cage, tapping his stick against the iron. "We'll think about what to do with you," he said, voice low and dangerous. "For now, stay put. Move, and you'll regret it."
The men laughed, echoing down the filthy room, and left the cage door hanging ominously open, just enough to remind her she wasn't entirely trapped—but that stepping out would be foolish. Evelyn pressed her back against the cold metal bars, her mind racing faster than her pulse.
Every bruise, every sting of pain, every rapid heartbeat reminded her: she was deep in the lion's den.
-----
Evelyn strained to listen as the men muttered about trafficking her, the words scraping across her mind like sandpaper. Her body was weak, bruised, and trembling, but her mind refused to stop racing. Every syllable confirmed her worst fears—this wasn't going to be easy.
"She's too much trouble. If we keep her alive, it'll draw the wrong eyes," one spat, his voice low but dangerous.
"Maybe we sell her… someone always pays for fresh merchandise," another muttered, glancing nervously toward the cage.
Her stomach churned.
Trafficking… her body? She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay silent, too weak to fight, too battered to protest. If she resisted now, she knew she wouldn't walk out alive.
Then, a sound cut through her thoughts: the heavy creak of a door, followed by the slow, deliberate tap of boots on the floor.
"What do you want?" one of the men barked, trying to mask his nerves.
A low chuckle answered him. "Someone's losing their nerve," the deep voice said, smooth and controlled, radiating a dangerous calm.
Four more boots approached, the men bracing themselves to confront whoever had entered.
"My pet," the voice continued, deliberate and sharp, "ran away from its owner to wander off. Have you seen it?"
Evelyn's heart sank. Relief… nowhere. This wasn't the man she had hoped for. If it were Silas, the entrance would have been brutal, a storm of fear and awe. But this… this was just another tough guy.
She lifted her eyes slowly. Her gaze swept the intruder, and in that instant she saw it—the precision, the control. He moved with a predator's awareness, taking in the room, the men, the tension.
One of the men lunged with a knife. Evelyn held her breath. The blade was yanked away violently; she caught the flash of pain as the man's palm scraped against steel, blood blooming faintly. The intruder sighed, calm, almost bored, and yet the air vibrated with threat.
"I didn't plan for this to happen tonight," his voice came again, quiet now, "but I need my pet… badly."
Before she could even process the words, a series of sharp sounds—grunts, heavy impacts, the snap of movement—filled the room. Bodies dropped, one by one. Evelyn counted silently: one… two… three… four… Not dead, just unconscious, sprawled across the floor. Monks himself had taken a cautious step back, fear finally touching him.
Her chest heaved as she tried to move, every nerve alive. The intruder's footsteps came closer, slow and deliberate. The door swung open wider. Evelyn's heart slammed against her ribs; she closed her eyes, trembling. This was it—the moment she had feared. The man these criminals had planned to use against her…
Then the voice, softer, yet sharper, cut through her fear:
"Miss flower… let's go home."
Her breath caught. That nickname. That tone. She forced her eyes open.
Silas Montclair.
Her heart lurched, joy and relief crashing together, almost bringing her to tears. There he was—crouched, hands lightly bleeding, a dangerous but beautiful smile she had never seen before, radiating warmth and control. The bruises, the fear, the world around her—all faded into nothing.
And then darkness claimed her.
*******
Evelyn woke to the ache of her head pounding, every movement sending sharp reminders of her bruises. Her vision cleared slowly, revealing the familiar grandeur of Room 006—Silas's bedroom.
Her hands were cuffed, resting heavy against the bed. She cursed biting her lips.
Her eyes immediately found him on the couch, her recorder, phone, and evidence in his hands. He noticed her stirring but didn't speak, only rolled the devices lightly between his fingers, calm, deliberate.
"S… Silas," she murmured, her voice raw, weak.
He finally looked at her, slow, deliberate, and almost amused. "Satisfied now?"
Evelyn's swollen lips trembled as she tried to form words. "H… how did you find me? Are you… my angel?"