Accidentally Yours Chapter 94

**Lola**

Pain dragged her back. Not gently. Not like waking. More like being shoved through glass.

Her ears rang so loud she couldn’t hear her own breath. The sound wasn’t even sound—it was pressure, a siren trapped inside her skull. Her ribs ground with every inhale, sharp lightning cracking down her side. The taste of copper coated her tongue, thick enough to gag.

She blinked. Once. Twice. The world swam in and out of focus. Dark shapes hunched around her, all jagged edges and shadows. Car doors slammed. Voices barked. The stink of smoke and gasoline clung to her clothes, mixed with the acrid bite of burned skin. Hers.

***Where the fuck am I?***

Memory staggered back in pieces. The shop. The table. The blast—white light swallowing everything, like the world had been erased in an instant. Then nothing.

She shifted and agony ripped through her chest, stars bursting behind her eyes. A whimper escaped before she could swallow it down. One of the shadows turned. A hand grabbed her arm, rough, gloved.

“Она жива (she’s alive),” a voice barked. Russian.

***Alive.***

***Fuck.***

***At this point I'd really rather not.***

Hands hauled her up, feet dragging useless against concrete. Every step rattled her bones, every jolt a fresh stab of fire. She tried to kick, to bite, to claw—but her body refused her. Her limbs hung heavy, rubber and slow, her strength drowned under pain and blood loss. Shrapnel burned in her side, warm streams soaking through her shirt and dripping down her hip.

***Not dead. Not yet. That’s something.***

A car door yanked open. She was shoved inside, metal biting her shoulder, her head cracking against the frame. The world spun again, tipping sideways. She squeezed her eyes shut, rode the nausea, tried not to choke on her own blood.

Names floated up through the haze. She’d heard them before. Enzo muttering them over late-night scotch, voice low and lethal. Threats, warnings. Russian crew moving in too close. Dimitri Volkov’s name had been on his lips like a curse.

And now his men had her.

The ride was short, or maybe she blacked out—time stretched wrong, broken. Her body floated, weightless one moment, unbearably heavy the next. Every bump in the road shoved glass deeper into her skin.

When the car lurched to a stop, pain yanked her awake again. She was yanked half-conscious out into night air that stank of sweat, smoke, and the rank oil-slick smell of Vegas back alleys.

Her boots scuffed pavement, knees buckling. Someone cursed in Russian. Fingers dug into her arms, dragging her toward a door glowing red with neon. A club.

Her stomach turned. Not like this. Like hell was she going to let these miscreants take her to what she knew was at the top of this club.

She tried to wrench free, ribs screaming, but another hand clamped her jaw tight. “Тихо (quiet),” the man hissed, breath sour against her cheek.

Her vision blurred, doubled, then split again. Shapes stuttered like bad film. And then—flashes. Movement across the alley. Shadows breaking from deeper shadows. Too many footsteps. Not the same crew.

Gunfire exploded.

The man holding her swore, shoving her back against the car. She sagged there, dazed, her pulse rattling like a trapped bird.

***Fuck everything hurts.***

***Danger.***

Through the ringing she caught fragments—shouts in Russian, then another language layered over it. Italian? The words blurred together, sharp edges cutting into the night.

Muzzles flashed. Screams cut short. The alley became a strobe of fire and death.

***Now***.

Her brain screamed it even while her body failed her. ***Move. Now.***

She forced her knees to lock, shoved off the car. Her ribs howled. Blood slicked her palms where glass still jutted from the skin. She stumbled, staggered, nearly dropped to her knees—but didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

The chaos gave her cover. She slipped, half-blind, toward the neon door. Shoved it open with the last of her strength and fell inside.

The bass of music shook through her skull, rattling her already broken head. The stink of perfume, sweat, and stale beer hit next, heavy enough to gag. Strobe lights painted everything in violent flashes—faces, bodies, the blur of stage poles, sequins and glitter blinding under the glare.

Lola hit the wall, braced herself there, dragging in ragged breaths. She was bleeding too much. Too obvious. Every drip of blood felt like it echoed, a breadcrumb trail for death to follow. A few men looked her way, brows furrowing, but none moved. Just another fucked-up girl stumbling in from the street—nothing this club hadn’t seen before.

Then—

“Holy shit.”

The voice was female, sharp with shock.

Lola blinked blearily. A woman stood near the bar, dark curls spilling over one shoulder, eyes lined sharp enough to cut. Sherry.

The dancer Lola had shared cigarettes with in the alley behind this same club on a couple of occasions. The one who only knew her as Cinnamon.

But Sherry’s face twisted in confusion now. Her gaze darted over Lola’s white-silver hair, her tattoos, the blood soaking her shirt.

“You—what the fuck—Cinnamon?”

Lola tried to answer, but her throat closed. Blood clogged the words. She staggered forward, grabbed Sherry’s wrist with a hand slick red. Her knees gave, body folding.

“Help,” she rasped. The word barely a whisper. “Please.”

Sherry caught her under the arms before she hit the ground. “Jesus Christ—fuck, stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.”

Lola’s head lolled, vision rolling. “They—took me—”

“Okay, fuck. Ok. Hold on.” Sherry’s voice shook but her grip didn’t. One-handed, she yanked her phone from her bra, snapped a quick picture, and fired it off with frantic thumbs.

Lola sagged against her, chest hitching. Her vision narrowed again, the whole room smearing into a swirl of neon and smoke.

Sherry’s phone buzzed almost instantly. She glanced at the screen, color draining from her face. Her jaw locked. Then she bent, lips brushing Lola’s ear.

“Don’t you fucking die on me, Cinnamon.”

Lola tried to laugh, but it came out wet, broken. She wanted to ask who the fuck Sherry had texted, why her eyes had gone sharp and scared, why the word don't fucking die on me sounded like a death knell—but the dark was already dragging her down again, heavy and merciless.

The last thing she felt was Sherry’s arms tightening around her and the sick twist of knowing she might have just traded one cage for another.