Cyprian's Pov
I trembled, every muscle pulled tight with confusion and fear. Something felt wrong. Deeply, terribly wrong. I had never been carried like this—never imagined I would be. Even if I had fainted, they should have slung me over the back like a man. Not this. Not cradled in arms like a child. Or worse—like a girl.
And yet, somehow, I was leaning into him. Into his warmth. Into the steady rise and fall of his chest. I could hear his heartbeat—slow, steady, unmoved. It felt unshakable. Quiet. Dangerous.
The two girls—Nina and Rukky—were being dragged away by another man, their screams slicing through the cold air as they twisted back to look at me. I could see the panic in their eyes. They were terrified. And I knew they thought I was their protector, that I was supposed to keep them safe. But now I was the one being torn away.
"Cyprian!" Nina screamed, her voice cracking as she reached for me.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The pain swallowed me. The fear swallowed me.
And worse than both—his scent.
It clung to me—thick, suffocating. Rain-soaked smoke. Bitter coffee. Something burnt and dark that sank into my lungs, sickened my stomach, and left my head spinning.
The heavy warehouse doors screeched as they were shoved open. Cold air rushed in, sharp against my sweat-soaked skin. Outside, the sun burned high over a line of black vehicles. Behind them, a Hilux, and behind that, older cars, engines idling, growling low like something alive.
The acid in my stomach churned until it felt like I was being eaten from the inside. But none of it mattered. The girls were gone—still screaming—as they were shoved into the back seat of one of the waiting cars.
I wanted to move. To fight. To do something—anything.
But I couldn't.
My body gave way completely as Black Tiger's arms locked tighter around me. He carried me without effort to another car—a black Range Rover. One of his men opened the door, and I was shoved inside. The soft slam of the door behind me was quiet. Final.
And just like that, the distance between me and the girls grew.
The engines rumbled to life. The blast of the air conditioner hit me fast, sharp enough to chill my bones. I shivered, and I wished—God, I wished—my hands were free. But they weren't going to make that mistake again. I could tell.
The moment the car started, Black Tiger blindfolded me. Then came the sharp tug of tape over my mouth—tight, swift, efficient. He gave me space, sitting at the far end of the back seat, and though I should have been grateful for the distance, the cold air left me shivering so hard I almost wished he were closer.
But I would bear it. Like a man. Like my mother's first son.
I closed my eyes beneath the blindfold and whispered the Hail Mary and the Our Father over and over in my mind, gripping them like lifelines. I prayed that the tears pressing at the back of my eyes wouldn't fall. If I showed this man even a moment of weakness, God knew what that would mean for me.
I would find a way to leave this place—or die trying.
I just hoped they'd keep their word. That they'd let the girls go home.
Silently, I prayed for them too.
"Jesus," I whispered in my heart, my thoughts shaking. "If You can see me from heaven, now's the time. I really, really need You to help me. If I survive this, I swear I'll join the seminary like my mother always wanted. Please…"
The car jerked to a stop. I flinched. My eyes snapped open, but I saw nothing—only the black of the blindfold. I felt it instead: Black Tiger stepping down from the vehicle, the subtle shift of weight, the cold air rushing in as the door opened.
Rough hands—not his—grabbed me and dragged me out. The driver, maybe. His grip was sharp, unforgiving. We walked a distance—long enough that my legs shook under me—until I heard the grind of a large gate, then more walking, my feet stumbling on uneven ground.
Then the smell hit me.
Something warm. Something baked. That smell that always drifted through the air when my mother would take me along to visit her wealthy friends—those rare times she'd beg for help to pay my school fees. That memory made my stomach twist tighter.
I was forced up a flight of stairs. Every step jarred the burning pain in my stomach, sharp and deep where that man had kicked me earlier. It felt torn—wrong—though I didn't dare curse him. He was dead already.
The memory brought fresh fear, thick in my throat. Bile crawled up behind it.
Finally, we reached the top. They turned me down a hallway, then shoved me into a room. The door creaked. I was thrown forward, landing hard on what felt like a bed.
My heart pounded so loud I couldn't hear anything else.