The warehouse was dead quiet, save for the echo of our breathing. Dust clung to the stale air, and the shadows played tricks on my eyes. My hands were tied, my wrists burning from the rough rope digging into my skin. Next to me, Mason's jaw was clenched, eyes scanning for any sign of JB.

"He's not coming," Mason muttered, voice low and bitter.

"Yes, he is," I whispered fiercely, refusing to believe otherwise. JB had never let me down, not once.

As if summoned by my belief, a sharp thud echoed from the shadows, followed by a muffled grunt. My heart raced.

Then, there he was. JB Cox, dark hair wild and sweat clinging to his brow, stepped out of the gloom, a fierce look in his eyes. His knuckles were raw, and the guy behind him slumped to the floor unconscious.

"You miss me?" he asked, voice cocky but strained, glancing between me and Mason.

"Always late," I shot back, masking my relief with sarcasm.

His lips curved into that infuriating grin. "Fashionably."

JB knelt quickly, pulling a knife from his boot and cutting through my ropes. The moment my hands were free, I lunged forward and grabbed his shirt, my voice trembling. "I thought—"

He pressed his forehead to mine for a split second, a quiet reassurance in the chaos. "You really think I'd let them take you?" he whispered, voice rough with emotion.