His After The Heartbreak (BL) Chapter 41: Rescued

Chapter 41- Rescued

Beatrice's POV

I thought I was dead.

The mont I heard the gunshot, I braced myself for the pain, for the darkness that would finally swallow whole.

But there was nothing. No searing agony, no final breath escaping my lips. Just silence.

Isn't a gunshot supposed to hurt?

The question barely had ti to form in my mind before I heard a grunt—deep and guttural, like a wounded animal—and then a heavy thud as a body hit the floor.

My eyes snapped open.

The man who had been ready to pull the trigger on was now sprawled across the ground, blood pouring from his chest, pooling beneath him. His fingers trembled as he tried to press down on the wound, as if he could stop the life from leaving his body.

I sucked in a shaky breath, my heart hamring against my ribs. He had been shot. Not .

For a fleeting second, relief flooded , but then confusion took its place. Had he shot himself? Was he that much of an idiot?

I watched as his eyes rolled back, his lips parting in gasping, dying breaths. His body jerked once, then twice.

And then—BANG!

A second shot rang out.

I flinched, my whole body going rigid as the bullet tore through his skull. Blood splattered against the concrete floor, a dark stain spreading beneath his head. His body stilled.

I opened my mouth to say sothing—anything—but the words got stuck in my throat.

I wanted to say he deserved it. I wanted to feel nothing. But the reality was, he had been human. A terrible, twisted man, but human nonetheless.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I forced myself to look up.

That was when I saw him.

A man stood across the dimly lit room, dressed in black from head to toe, a mask concealing his face. In his gloved hand, he held a Glock 19, the barrel still raised. He had been the one to fire the shot.

He was still pointing the gun—directly at .

My breath hitched. Was he here to finish the job?

I clenched my fists, bracing myself. If he was going to shoot , I wouldn't beg.

But the shot never ca.

Instead, I felt a gloved hand at my back, tugging at the ropes binding my wrists.

I gasped. My eyes darted to him, wide with disbelief.

He wasn't here to kill . He was... freeing ?

The ropes burned against my skin as he yanked them loose, and I let out a sharp cry of pain. My wrists were raw, the flesh cut open from the tight bindings.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice hoarse from hours of screaming.

The masked man ignored .

The mont I spoke, he yanked the last of the ropes free, and I winced. I bit my lip to keep from making another sound. My body ached, my legs numb from sitting in that chair for so long.

But I couldn't stay quiet.

"Who sent you?" I pressed, desperation creeping into my voice.

Still, no answer.

I glared at him, frustration boiling inside .

The ropes around my ankles finally ca undone, and he gestured for to stand. I tried—but the second I put weight on my legs, pain shot up my body. My knees buckled, and I collapsed back into the chair with a hiss.

The man caught before I hit the ground, gripping my arm to steady . His touch was firm, but not rough.

He pulled up again, this ti supporting my weight as he guided toward the door.

Panic surged through .

"We can't go that way," I whispered urgently. "They'll kill us the second we step out!"

I expected him to reassure . To say sothing—anything.

Instead, he let go.

I yelped as my weakened body crumpled to the floor, pain radiating through my limbs. I glared up at him from where I lay, my breath ragged.

"Jerk," I muttered under my breath.

He didn't react. Instead, he strode across the room to a far corner.

I watched, confused, as he grabbed the edge of a tattered rug and yanked it back.

My eyes widened.

Beneath it was a hidden passageway—a ladder leading underground.

How did he know about that?

For a second, I hesitated. If he knew about this escape route, did that an he was working with my captors?

He turned back to and reached out his hand.

I stared at it.

Running was an option. But a stupid one. Even if I made it five feet, I wouldn't get far before I was dragged back and shot in the head.

So, with a deep breath, I placed my hand in his.

He pulled up and guided to the ladder. I climbed down shakily, every movent sending jolts of pain through my sore muscles. He followed, sealing the passage shut just as the door to the main room burst open.

I heard shouting above us.

They had found the bodies.

They knew we were gone.

The masked man wasted no ti. He grabbed my wrist, pulling forward as we started running. The underground tunnel was dark and damp, the walls closing in around us. My breath ca in ragged gasps, my body screaming for rest.

But I had no choice. I had to keep going.

Still, I couldn't help myself.

"Who are you?" I asked again between breaths.

The man let out a frustrated groan.

"Can you keep your mouth shut?" he snapped. "If you don't, I'll leave you here to get killed."

I opened my mouth to argue—just as a voice echoed above us.

"They're in the tunnels!"

Gunfire erupted.

Bullets slamd against the passageway door, shaking the walls.

The masked man grabbed my hand again, pulling forward as we ran.

I ignored the burning pain in my legs, forcing myself to move.

After what felt like forever, we finally erged into the open air.

The sudden brightness stung my eyes, and I blinked rapidly, adjusting to the light.

A car was waiting for us.

Without hesitation, the man dragged toward it. The driver—a faceless figure in black—threw open the door, and I was shoved inside.

The vehicle sped off before I could process what was happening.

I sat still, forcing my breathing to slow.

I wanted to ask who they were. Who had sent them. But I knew if I pushed my luck, I might not like the answer.

The car screeched to a sudden halt.

My heart pounded.

I turned to look out the window—only to see another vehicle blocking our path.

The back door of the second car swung open.

And then—before I could react—soone grabbed .

Strong hands yanked out of the car and dragged forward. I didn't need to look up to know who it was.

The guard.

Declan's guard.

The sa one who had first brought here.

My blood turned to ice.

I was shoved into the backseat of the other car. My body slamd against the leather interior, and I gasped, my hands gripping the seat for balance.

And then I saw him.

Sitting there. Calm. Composed.

Wearing black shades as if this was nothing but another day.

Declan.

A white-hot rage burned through .

Before he could even part his lips to speak, my fist shot forward—connecting hard with his face.

The impact was satisfying. His head jerked to the side, the sunglasses slipping down his nose.

"You bastard!" I spat.

He let out a low growl, adjusting his shades.

"Do not try that again," he warned. "Unless you want to—"

CRACK!

My fist collided with his jaw again.

His head snapped back.

And for the first ti since this nightmare began—I felt powerful.