Chapter Thirty-Eight
Savannah
I stretch lazily in bed, feeling the weight of Rylan’s arm draped possessively over my waist, anchoring me to him. His even breathing stirs my hair, warm and comforting, and I can’t help but smile. The soft afternoon light filters through the curtains, bathing the room in a mellow glow. Afternoon. I blink at the clock and nearly snort—how did we manage to sleep this long? Between his snoring symphony and my tendency to toss like a fish out of water, it’s a miracle we slept at all, let alone so well. Everything feels different now, like life has finally settled into exactly where it’s meant to be.
Last night wasn’t just sex; it was something more. Something that filled the cracks I hadn’t realized existed. And now, as we lie tangled together, I can feel it—this unspoken bond that neither of us will acknowledge aloud just yet.
Rylan stirs, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along my side. “Morning, mo stóirín,” he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep.
“Afternoon,” I correct, a playful smile tugging at my lips as I turn to face him. His piercing green eyes blink in mild confusion, still heavy with sleep. “Unless you think the sun’s hanging out up there just for decoration.”
He lets out a soft laugh, his grin sheepish. “Afternoon, then,” he amends, leaning in to press a kiss to my forehead. “Still feels like morning when I wake up next to you.”
The teasing warmth in his voice melts away any lingering humor, leaving me momentarily lost in the tenderness of the moment. His words, his touch—it all feels so simple, so grounding, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. And for now, I let myself believe it.
“Stay right here,” he says, slipping out of bed. His toned, tattooed frame is a sight to behold as he heads for the kitchen. “I’ll make us some brunch.”
I nod, watching him go, my gaze locked onto the way his muscles flex in his back and his fine, muscular ass that may or may not have some scratch marks from my nails digging into it last night. I can’t help but marvel at how different everything feels. Just days ago, I couldn’t stand even looking at him. Now, the thought of spending a moment apart feels almost unbearable.
When Rylan returns with plates of perfectly cooked eggs, bacon, and toast, we eat in comfortable silence. The quiet between us isn’t awkward—it’s easy, like we’ve known each other forever.
“I need to head into town for a bit,” he says, clearing the plates. “We’re running low on a few things, and Declan sent me a package of . . . supplies. I need to pick it up from the post office.”
“Supplies?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He smirks. “Don’t worry about it. While I’m gone, you should work on that book of yours. There’s a computer in the office upstairs. You’re welcome to use it to get some writing done.”
The thought of having time to write fills me with a strange sense of hope. Writing has always been my escape, but with everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten how much I needed it.
“Alright.” I nod. “But don’t take too long.”
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promises, leaning down to kiss me. It’s soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that makes me want to pull him back into bed. But he pulls away with a playful grin and grabs his keys before heading out the door.
The house feels empty without him, but I feel like myself again after having felt like I lost myself. I find the office easily and settle into the plush chair at the desk. The laptop hums softly while I start it up and open a blank document. Words flow as my fingers dance over the keyboard, the story I’ve been toying with for years finally coming to life.
Hours pass in a blur, and I only stop when my phone buzzes beside me. Rylan’s name flashes on a text notification.
Rylan
I’m sending an Uber to pick you up. We’ll have an early dinner. Be ready in 30 minutes.
Excitement bubbles in my chest. I quickly save my work and dash upstairs to get ready. I do my hair and makeup, then choose a simple yet flattering sundress that makes me feel like I’m reclaiming another piece of my old self. By the time I hear the low rumble of a car engine outside, I’m practically glowing.
When I step outside, the sleek black town car parked in the driveway makes me chuckle. Of course, Rylan would send an Uber Black. Nothing less would do.
The driver steps out to open the door for me. He’s tall, with tan skin and sharp features that seem oddly familiar, though I can’t place him. His eyes flicker with something unreadable as he gestures for me to enter.
“Thank you,” I say politely, sliding into the car. The leather seats are cool against my skin, grounding me in this sweet, unexpected stretch of pure bliss. Honestly, I’ve been walking around like the star of a feel-good rom-com, half-expecting upbeat music to start playing every time I so much as smile. Life feels safe, steady, and delightful—like the universe decided to throw me a bone for once. I’m about to buckle my seatbelt, humming to myself like the carefree main character I’ve become, when I’m stopped suddenly, and the universe decides it’s had enough of my happiness.
A hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off the scream before it can even think about making an appearance, and a hood is yanked over my head so fast it’s like I’ve been drafted into some twisted magician’s disappearing act. Panic floods my system, sharp and cold, as my heart does its best impression of a drum solo. I thrash wildly, kicking and jerking, but it’s like fighting a brick wall that’s grown arms and a grudge. My mind races, instincts screaming louder than a bad karaoke singer to fight, run, do something, but my body is embarrassingly outmatched.
The hood scratches against my face, rough and suffocating, and the grip holding me still doesn’t falter for a second. My breathing comes in shallow gasps, amplified in the suffocating darkness, while muffled footsteps and faint metallic clanging fill the air around me. Every nerve in my body is screaming for escape, but no amount of writhing gets me anywhere. It’s disorienting, terrifying, and utterly helpless.
Great, this is how I go—hooded, muffled, and flailing like a poorly programmed robot. Just yesterday, I was the picture of rom-com bliss. Now? I’m starring in the horror movie nobody asked for.
“Stay still,” a voice growls, gravelly and threatening.
The air inside the hood feels suffocating, each breath bouncing back hot against my face. Panic claws at my chest as I thrash, desperate for fresh air. Suddenly, a chemical scent seeps through the fabric, sharp and cloyingly sweet, like almonds gone wrong. They must have soaked the hood itself. Are you kidding me? A pre-soaked hood? My lungs betray me, dragging in the tainted air no matter how hard I try to resist. My thoughts spin out in a chaotic tangle of terror and disbelief: This can’t be real. Am I seriously being taken out by a hood that doubles as a portable chloroform trap?
The world starts to tilt, my limbs grow heavy, and the last thing I feel is the terrifying certainty that I’m about to disappear without a trace.