Reborn Heiress: Escaping Her Traitorous Fiancé

Fiona POV:

Trapped in his embrace, I twisted my torso, using my core strength to try and break the iron grip on my waist. It was like pushing against a mountain. He didn't budge.

Abandoning the escape, I shifted to offense. The silver hairpin I'd just used to kill was still in my hair. My right hand, a blur of motion, snatched it and stabbed toward the exposed column of his throat.

A low, throaty chuckle was his only response. His left hand shot up, catching my wrist in a grip that felt like a vise.

A sickening crunch of bone sent a shockwave of pain up my arm. I bit down on my lip to keep from screaming, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth. My left hand was already moving, pulling the folding knife from my sleeve and slashing toward his abdomen.

His eyes, visible above the mask, glinted with something that looked like amusement. He leaned back just enough for the blade to slice through empty air. At the same time, his right arm pulled me forward, off-balance.

I crashed into his chest, the impact knocking the wind from my lungs. The scent of cedar, sharp and overwhelming, flooded my senses, making my head spin.

Pain was a distant roar. I fought through it, raising my knee and driving it upward with all my might, aiming for the one spot that makes any man vulnerable. This wasn't a duel; it was a street fight for my life.

The amusement in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, chilling cold. His thigh muscles tensed, hard as rock, meeting my knee with a dull thud that sent a jolt of agony back up my own leg.

Before I could react, he twisted my arms behind my back, the captured knife clattering to the forest floor. With a grunt of exertion, he shoved me forward, slamming my body against the rough bark of a massive redwood tree.

My cheek scraped against the coarse surface, the friction tearing the skin. Tiny beads of blood welled up.

I struggled, thrashing against him, but his strength was absolute, immovable. A chasm of despair opened in my chest. The power difference between us was too vast.

His tall, hard body pressed against my back, caging me. I could feel the heat radiating from him, an unnerving, excited warmth that made my skin crawl.

He lowered his head, the cold edge of his silver mask brushing against my ear. A shiver, purely physiological, wracked my body.

He inhaled deeply, the sound a soft hiss right next to my ear. His nose was almost touching the small, bleeding scratches on my neck. He was scenting me.

I felt a strange shift in him. The raw, violent energy that had been pouring off him in waves seemed to quiet, just for a second. It was as if his inner wolf, which I sensed was a raging, feral beast, had been momentarily soothed by the scent of my blood mixed with my own natural lily fragrance.

The shift was fleeting. A spark of something new lit in his eyes—a flicker of shock, followed by a possessive, almost insane fervor.

Then, his tongue darted out.

The wet, slick muscle traced a path over the tiny beads of blood on my neck.

A jolt, like a weak electric current, shot through me. Revulsion and a primal fear churned in my stomach. "You son of a bitch," I spat, the words laced with venom.

I tried to slam the back of my head into his face, but he simply tilted his head, avoiding the blow with contemptuous ease. The movement pulled at the scraped skin on my cheek, sending a fresh sting of pain across my face.

His long, elegant fingers clamped onto my chin, forcing me to turn my head and meet his gaze. The amusement was back, mixed with a terrifying curiosity.

I stared at that half-hidden face, my mind racing, desperately trying to place him. Where had I seen those eyes? That cruel curve of his lips?

"Are you one of Chaz's dogs?" I snarled, throwing out the name like a stone, trying to gauge his reaction.

At the mention of Chaz, the mockery in his eyes deepened. A cold, dismissive laugh escaped his lips. "That pathetic Alpha? You have terrible taste in men."

His tone, dripping with aristocratic disdain for my fiancé, confirmed it. A fatal misjudgment. He wasn't working for Chaz. He was something else entirely. Something far worse.

My strategy had to change. Now.

I let my body go limp, feigning exhaustion, hoping he might loosen his grip.

He noticed the shift instantly, but instead of relaxing, his arms tightened, pressing me harder against the tree. He wasn't falling for it.

"Don't," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against my ear. "Don't try your little tricks on me. You're my prey now."

I could barely breathe. My chest was crushed against the unyielding bark, my lungs burning. Survival instinct, raw and powerful, took over again.

I let my eyelids flutter closed, pretending to submit. But trapped between our pressed bodies, hidden in the small gap where my wrists were pinned behind my back, the fingers of my right hand inched along the waistband of my dress. They brushed against a familiar shape—the hard, narrow cylinder of the silver hairpin, which must have slipped from my bun during the struggle and snagged on the fabric.

I closed my hand around it, the sharp point digging into my palm.

I slowly lifted my head, letting tears of genuine pain and frustration well in my eyes, making them glisten in the moonlight. I would wait for the perfect moment, for the instant his guard was at its lowest, and then I would drive this pin through his eye.