Do Not Push Me Calla!

The biting chill of cold metal digging into my wrists dragged me from the heavy depths of unconsciousness. I stirred, my head throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache that made my vision swim. Blinking against the heavy atmosphere, I expected my eyes to adjust. They didn't.

Absolute, suffocating darkness surrounded me.

A phantom scent of sleek leather and a distinctly sharp, masculine musk hung in the air. The faint smells screamed wealth and power, but the sensory deprivation triggered a much older, primal terror inside me. It wasn't just the sharp sting in my wrists that made my blood run cold. It was the crushing realization of where I was.

I was locked in a pitch-black, closed room.

The walls instantly felt like they were shrinking, closing in on me inch by inch. I was ten years old the last time this happened. The man I loved the most, the man I looked up to as my personal hero, had shoved me into a lightless room and left me there to rot for six straight days. I survived, but the darkness never truly left me. It birthed a crippling, paralyzing fear of closed, unlit spaces that clawed at my sanity.

My chest tightened. The air felt too thin to breathe. Panic flared hot and fast in my veins, but I forced my jaw shut. *Focus.* I needed to move.

I twisted my wrists against the steel restraints. I had picked cuffs before; this was muscle memory. I manipulated my fingers, feeling for the internal mechanism, pressing and sliding the locking pin. *Click.* The metal jaws popped open, sliding off my bruised skin.

I threw myself off the mattress, my bare feet hitting a smooth, cold floor. I scrambled through the void, hands outstretched until my palms slapped against solid wood. I found the handle and yanked downward with all my strength.

Locked.

"Let me out!" I pounded my fists against the heavy wood, the sound dull and muffled. "Is anyone out there?"

Footsteps shuffled on the other side. A deep, stoic voice filtered through the wood. "Miss, we can’t open the door. Master Cassian’s orders."

My breathing turned ragged. "Please!" My voice cracked, betraying the sheer terror rising in my throat. "I swear I won’t run. Just... open the door!"

"I’m sorry. We can’t."

My lungs seized. The suffocating darkness pressed against my face, heavy and thick. "No, no, no. You don’t get it!" I screamed, slamming my shoulders against the unyielding barrier. "I can’t stay in here! Open the damn door!"

Dead silence answered me.

I stumbled backward, my chest heaving as I stared into the oppressive blackness. *Stay calm,* I ordered myself. But the trauma was a living thing, and it was winning. The panic demanded a way out.

"One last chance," I hissed through gritted teeth, glaring at where I knew the door stood. "Will you open it or not?"

No answer.

Fine. They wanted a mess? I would give them a warzone.

I turned around, sweeping my hands through the dark until my fingers brushed against a cold, smooth object. A heavy, oversized vase. It felt expensive. I hoisted it above my head and hurled it straight down. The ceramic shattered against the floor, an explosive crash that ripped through the quiet.

I didn't stop. I blindly grabbed the frames hanging on the walls, tearing down every painting and hurling them across the room. I knocked over side tables, smashed fragile lamps, and shredded whatever fabric my hands could find. Glass rained down, shards and debris scattering across the floor. By the time my lungs burned for air, the room was a decimated wasteland.

Then, I heard it.

The heavy deadbolt clicked.

The instant the door creaked open, spilling harsh hallway light into my eyes, I lunged. I swung the jagged neck of the broken vase directly at the guard stepping inside. He cursed, stumbling backward to avoid the glass, giving me just enough space to bolt past him.

I burst out into a sprawling, multi-level penthouse. The sheer luxury was staggering—gleaming marble floors reflecting the city lights pouring in through massive, floor-to-ceiling glass walls. My bare feet slapped hard against the stone as I sprinted toward a sweeping glass staircase.

Before I could reach the first step, two hulking men in black suits came charging up the stairs, cutting off my only exit.

With zero time to calculate the drop, I veered right, vaulted over the glass railing, and plummeted.

I landed hard on the lower floor. A sharp, jarring pain shot straight up my shins and exploded in my knees, but adrenaline masked the agony. I scrambled forward, desperate for a way out.

I was too late.

Four guards closed in from the shadows, surrounding me like a pack of starving wolves. I fought back with everything I had. I swung my fists, aiming for throats and jaws. I kicked, twisted, and scratched, fighting like a feral animal backed into a corner.

But they were massive, trained, and ruthless. Thick, heavy hands clamped down on my arms, their brutal grip meant to punish. The men dug their fingers ruthlessly into my biceps, pinching and twisting the tender flesh. I thrashed, but their hands only clamped down harder, bruising my skin and leaving hot, stinging red marks that I knew would turn purple by morning.

They twisted my arms painfully behind my back, forcing my face toward the marble floor. Cold metal snapped around my wrists once more. They dragged me back up the stairs, my heels dragging across the floor, right back into the trashed room.

This time, they didn't leave me on the bed. They forced me against the cold wall, locking the cuffs to heavy iron rings bolted into the stone. The metal bit deep into my raw skin.

My breathing came in harsh, ragged gasps. My hair stuck to my sweaty face in tangled clumps. I looked down at myself and realized just how vulnerable I was. I was wearing nothing but an oversized white button-down shirt. It barely covered my thighs, leaving my bruised, bare legs entirely exposed.

Some of the guards immediately averted their eyes, shifting uncomfortably. Others didn't possess the same restraint, letting their gazes drop and linger on my exposed skin far longer than necessary. Heat crawled up my neck, a mix of sheer humiliation and boiling rage.

Then, the temperature in the room plummeted.

Heavy, authoritative footsteps echoed from the hallway. The guards immediately stepped back, lowering their heads in deep submission.

Cassian Vargo walked in.

He moved like a man who owned the very air we breathed. He was tall, imposing, and dressed in a sleek, immaculate Armani three-piece suit that practically screamed dominance. His broad shoulders filled out the dark jacket, making him look devastatingly handsome, yet radiating a lethal, terrifying energy.

His dark, almost-black eyes swept over me first, taking in my exposed legs and the oversized shirt. His lips twitched, a faint, mocking amusement dancing on his features as he raised a single brow. Then, his gaze shifted to the surrounding chaos. He took in the shattered vase, the torn paintings, the decimated furniture.

The amusement vanished. His expression hardened into pure, murderous rage.

"Care to explain the drama?" he bit out, his jaw tight, his voice a low rumble that promised violence.

I scoffed, rolling my eyes at him. I planted my bare feet against the floor and glared back, my chest heaving.

"Are you going to f-fuck me? Is that why you bring me here?" I spat, holding his intimidating stare without backing down.

He froze. The sheer audacity of my words seemed to catch him off guard for a fraction of a second. Then, his gaze narrowed into dangerous slits.

"If you don’t shut that pretty mouth of yours, Darling, I’ll fuck your life." His voice was ice. Cold, biting, and laced with a fury that made my pulse stutter.

"I hate dark, closed rooms!" I yelled back, my voice sharp and defensive, echoing off the bare walls.

His patience snapped.

In a terrifying blur of motion, he crossed the room. Before I could even blink, he slammed his body against mine, pinning me hard against the wall. His massive hand clamped directly over my neck, his long fingers wrapping around my throat, instantly cutting off my airway.

"Watch your tone with me, darling," he growled, leaning in until his face was inches from mine. His breath fanned across my cheek, icy and lethal. "Do not push my limits, Calla."

He knew my name.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. True, raw fear clawed its way up my throat. His grip was an iron vice. His dead, emotionless eyes locked onto mine, and in that split second, I genuinely believed he was going to snap my neck. My lungs burned for oxygen. My hands twitched in the cuffs.

A single tear slipped from the corner of my eye. It traced a hot path down my cheek and dropped directly onto his knuckles.

The shift was instantaneous.

The murderous intent vanished from his eyes. His grip loosened, dropping away from my throat like he had been burned.

I gasped, sucking in huge, desperate mouthfuls of precious air. My legs buckled beneath me, unable to hold my weight. I braced for the hard impact of the floor, but before my knees could hit the stone, his arm shot out. He caught me firmly by the waist, his strong grip steadying my trembling body.

With his free hand, he reached up and flicked the locking mechanism on the wall chains. The metal cuffs fell away.

Without uttering a single word, he bent down, swept his arm under my knees, and lifted me into his arms. He cradled me against his broad chest as if I weighed absolutely nothing.

I didn't fight him. I couldn't. I leaned my head against the lapel of his suit, my body still shaking from the adrenaline crash. My shallow breath brushed against his collar.

That was when I saw it. A clean white bandage peeked out from underneath his collar, covering the exact spot where I had driven my knife into his neck just hours ago. The memory of his blood coating my blade flashed through my mind.

I hesitated, my hand trembling slightly as I raised a single finger. I lightly traced the edge of the gauze.

"Does it still hurt?" The question slipped from my lips, my voice a broken, barely audible whisper.

His purposeful strides stopped dead. His entire body went rigid beneath me, his muscles turning to stone for one agonizing heartbeat. But he didn't answer. He just tightened his hold on me and kept walking.

He carried me out of the destroyed room and down a wide, quiet hallway, finally stepping into a massive bedroom.

The contrast was staggering. Soft beige walls glowed warmly in the natural sunlight streaming through a massive bay window. The air was crisp, clean, and smelled heavily of fresh lavender. It was a sanctuary.

"Mrs. Hilda!" His voice cut through the tranquil silence, sharp, loud, and demanding.

A woman in her mid-forties rushed through a side door, wiping her hands on an apron. "Yes, Master Cassian?"

"Check her wounds."

He stepped toward the center of the room and lowered me down. His touch was shockingly careful as he settled me onto the plush mattress, arranging the pillows behind my back so I could sit up.

He took a step back, turning his broad shoulders toward the door to leave.

I couldn't let him walk away.

"Cassian Vargo," I called out.

He stopped, his hand resting on the brass door handle.

My voice steadied, the remnants of my panic replaced by a burning need for the truth. I stared at the back of his expensive suit, demanding answers.

"Why am I here? What does a billionaire and heir to the Vargo Empire want with a poor woman like me?"