CHAPTER FIVE
I head over to the window and look out to the street.
He wasn’t kidding.
There’s a sleek black SUV parked there, windows so dark they may as well be painted on.
My heart’s gone back into gavel mode, flooded with a mix of anticipation and dread. The driver steps out in a crisp black suit, checking his watch.
This is really happening, I think. I’m either off to Lumina or a shallow grave.
I dress fast, throwing on the least crinkled outfit I can muster, tossing whatever I can find into an old duffle. I add Gran’s grimoire, her old pea coat. I don’t know what I’ll need, but fuck it.
But Sabrina, I think to myself. You’re not even going to tell her?
Would it make a difference?
Maybe it won’t work out. Maybe I’ll be back in a week.
Like hell.
No, I’ll find a way to contact her from Lumina. Ask for forgiveness, not permission—that’s the way to do it.
I finish up and make my way downstairs, a final look at the eviction notice before I close the door and pocket the key. And I actually. No one is going to kick me out because I won’t fucking be here. I’m leaving by choice. In my book, this is a win. A small one, yes, but a win, nonetheless. I won’t have to carry that burden. I won’t have to count down the days until those bastards barge in and yell at me to get the hell out of here.
Outside, the driver doesn’t speak, or even say hello. He simply opens the back door of the SUV, ushering me inside.
I slide into the plush leather interior, the door closing behind me.
Limos, mysterious SUVs…I could get used to this.
The tinted windows cut off the outside world, sealing me in as the engine hums to life.
Sabrina would kill me if she knew I was stepping into a strange car about to be taken who knows where, but it’s too late. I’m in this now.
My fingers curl into edge of the seat, gripping until my knuckles go bone white.
You’ve done it now, I tell myself.
The SUV is already gliding forward, moving swiftly through the streets.
I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The soft vibration of the engine is almost soothing.
Almost.
Because underneath it simmers a coil of panic and anticipation. I don't know what's waiting for me at the end of this ride. All I know is that I've handed myself over to Wolf, given him complete control. In a way, it’s liberating.
The thought makes me squirm in my seat, warmth pressing between my legs. I hate how much I want this. How much I need it. How my body comes alive at the mere thought of what he might do to me, but that’s all fantasy. I may never see him again.
We drive for a good half-hour, finally pulling up to what appears to be an airstrip—small, private. My heart’s thumping so hard I'm sure the driver must hear it.
The door opens with a soft click, even that causes me to jump.
"We're here, Miss." The driver stands by the open door beside me, hand extended. I let him help me out, the air hot.
There’s an all-white jet just twenty yards away. “That’s not for…”
“Yes,” he says simply, “I believe it is. Courtesy of the Academy.”
I’ve never been on a jet before. Flew to Dallas once in cattle class so Gran could watch the Cowboys, but this, this is something else.
I notice the driver holding a flute of champagne out, the pale gold liquid sparkling.
Where the fuck that came from, I have no idea. I’ve been watching him the entire time.
“For the flight,” he says, “to calm your nerves, and celebrate. Again, courtesy of the Academy.” He sees my expression. “It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”
Nerves. So it’s that obvious, huh? That’s how transparent I am?
My mouth goes dry. I stare at the offered drink, suspicion curling in my gut.
Sab’s screaming in my head again.
Don’t drink it! It’s a roofie!
I take the champagne flute but have no intention of drinking.
The driver moves to close the door behind me.
I lift the flute to my nose, the bubbles ticklish.
I mean, it smells like champagne?
And you know what Rohypnol smells like? I consider, though I’m pretty sure it’s odorless.
There’s a sharp prick against my neck. I glance down and left, can only see the end of the hypodermic needle the driver’s holding against me.
No.
No, no, no.
My fingers go numb, the flute slipping from my grasp and shattering on the tarmac, the stem cartwheeling away.
Son of a bitch.
Cold swims up from my feet so all-encompassing it’s sucks the air from my lungs.
The driver catches me as I buckle. "There, there," he murmurs, easing me to the ground. Darkness clouds the edge of my vision, closing in fast.
The last thing I'm aware of is the crunch of glass underneath me, how incredibly polished this guy’s shoes are, before everything turns into a thick, endless black.