The knife gleamed under the harsh lights of the warehouse, its deadly edge inching toward my arm. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't even scream. All I could do was close my eyes and brace for the pain.
Then came the sound—glass shattering, followed by a dull thud.
My eyes flew open just in time to see my captor collapse to the ground, beer bottle fragments glistening in his hair. Blood trickled down his forehead as he slumped forward, but before I could process what had happened, Rhys was there, moving with terrifying speed.
He snatched the knife from the man's loosened grip, flipped it with practiced ease, and plunged it deep into the captor's arm. The man's agonized scream echoed through the warehouse as Rhys twisted the blade, his face a mask of cold fury.
"That," Rhys growled, twisting the knife deeper, "is so you remember what happens when you touch what's mine."
