Page 92 of The Big Bad Duke

But the guard’s reaction was the opposite. With a rageful growl—desperately trying to pull his trousers back up while maintaining some semblance of dignity—he rushed toward Gideon.

“No!” Leila cried out, but it was too late.

The man began kicking Gideon, his boots connecting with ribs, stomach, shoulders—anywhere he could reach. The chains rattled violently with each impact, and the grunts of pain that escaped Gideon made Leila whimper helplessly.

The second man joined in, and they both assaulted Gideon, who curled up on the floor to protect himself. Leila could hear the sickening sound of boots meeting flesh and see Gideon’s body jerking with each impact despite his attempts to shield himself.

“Stop!” Leila screamed, trying desperately to gain their attention. “Stop hurting him! I’ll do whatever you want, just stop!”

Better her than him.

She couldn’t bear to watch him suffer for her sake.

But her pleas only seemed to encourage them, and the situation spiraled rapidly from bad to worse.

One of the men reached into his boot and pulled out a short dagger.

A desperate scream tore from Leila’s throat.

What followed were the most agonizing seconds of her life, watching in helpless terror as the blade was raised above Gideon’s curled-up form.

She tracked the glint of the dagger with her eyes, trying to see where exactly Gideon lay, whether he was conscious, whether he could defend himself. Her heart felt like it might burst from the sheer terror of watching someone she cared about face mortal danger.

This was worse than anything they had planned for her all along. “Take me instead!” she cried. “Leave him alone!”

Fortunately, Gideon somehow managed to knock the blade from his attacker’s hand, sending it skittering across the stone floor.

The dagger slid in Leila’s direction, though it was still too far for her to simply reach it.

Taking advantage of the fact that both men were focused entirely on their assault on Gideon, she flattened herself against the floor and stretched her legs toward the weapon.

Inch by agonizing inch, she dragged the blade closer, her heart hammering as she waited for someone to notice what she was doing. Finally, she grasped the hilt and quickly hid the weapon beneath her body.

At that moment, using his chains as weapons, Gideon managed to trip one of his attackers. Leila couldn’t see which one in the darkness. The man went down hard, his head striking the stone floor with a sickening crack that echoed through the cell.

The remaining guard let out a yell of pure rage and began kicking Gideon with renewed vigor, his attacks becoming even more vicious in his fury over his fallen companion.

But before the situation could deteriorate further, the sound of running footsteps echoed from the corridor outside. Two more men burst into the cell, their faces masks of alarm and anger.

“Oi! You daft bastards!” one of them shouted, grabbing the enraged guard and physically dragging him away from Gideon’s battered form. “We wasn’t told to kill ’em!”

They helped drag the unconscious man with the head injury from the cell while trying to calm down his companion, whose rage seemed to have consumed him completely.

As the commotion died down and the cell fell back into relative quiet, Leila found herself staring at Gideon’s form in the darkness.

Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. Her eyes refused to look away from his unmoving body.

Was… was he dead?

* * *

Gideon slumped against the cold stone wall, his body a symphony of pain and exhaustion. Every breath sent sharp spikes of agony through his ribs, and he could taste the metallic tang of blood trickling from his nose down to his split lip. His left eye was beginning to swell shut, and a persistent ringing in his ears made it difficult to focus.

However, as he took a mental inventory of his injuries, he realized with satisfaction that the damage wasn’t as severe as it could have been. The darkness of the cell had worked in his favor, making it difficult for his attackers to land precise blows. More importantly, the guards had been either drunk or completely incompetent—possibly both.

Their kicks, while painful, had been sloppy and poorly aimed. They’d tangled themselves in his chains more than once, stumbling over each other in their eagerness to inflict damage. Half their attacks had connected with nothing but air, and even when their boots found their mark, they had missed his vital organs.

At least, he didn’t think they had done any permanent damage. His lungs burned with every breath, his head throbbed, and his entire body ached—but he could still think clearly enough to analyze his situation. He could sit upright. He could breathe.