Chapter 3
brYLEE
We drive for less than half an hour—not nearly enough time to leave the country.
A burlap sack is thrust over my head as I’m jerked out of the van. The grip on my arm is almost bruising, but I don’t allow a single whimper of pain to escape.
Cold night air bites at my skin, but I welcome the chill and the reminder that I’m still alive. Still breathing.
For now.
Where the hell are we?
What do they have planned for me?
Fear kick-starts my heart, causing it to batter my breast plate. It almost sounds like a death knell, keeping time with each step as I’m marched to my end.
Boom.
Step.
Boom.
Step.
Boom.
I try to take in my surroundings—what do I hear? What do I smell? What do I feel?
Cars. I hear cars. A few honks, which makes me believe we’re in a semi-populated area.
I inhale but only detect car exhaust and something woodsy. Are we near a forest? The smell is too dampened for me to know for sure.
And for what I feel…
Nothing, except for the hand bruising my arm and the crunch of asphalt beneath my feet. Loose asphalt, though, which makes me believe this is a road or driveway that hasn’t been cared for recently.
You just have to be smart about this, Brylee.
You can’t give in to your panic.
I force myself to suck in a scorching breath, the air itself seeming to be made of razor blades, before loosing it. I do this a couple more times until I’m able to hold on to even a modicum of calmness.
I know immediately when we step inside. The loose pebbles beneath my boots morph into something solid—probably cement. The air here is stale and smells vaguely of copper mixed with something else, something distinctly tangy.
They lead me forward a few steps and then abruptly jerk me to the side. I stumble over my feet but manage to right myself before face-planting.
“In here,” one of the Noths instructs, pushing at my back.
In the next moment, the burlap sack over my head is removed, and I blink rapidly, attempting to orient myself.
The room I’m now in is small and gray—a cement box.
Will this be my prison for the foreseeable future?
Fear coils around my chest like steel belts, making it hard to suck in a full breath.
The door behind me snicks shut, and I spin, my heart pounding wildly, only to find I’m not alone.
An unfamiliar woman stares back at me, her firm lips pressed into an unyielding line and her golden hair shaved on the sides while looped through intricate braids at the top. The insignia of the Nóthos rests on her sleeve.
“Here,” she tells me stiffly, thrusting a bundle of fabric forward.
I stare at her with furrowed brows, unsure of what she wants from me.
Irritation crawls across her face, puckering her lips. “Get dressed.” She pauses and then adds, “Unless you want the men to dress you themselves.”
Get…dressed?
Cold fear snakes its way down my spine, slithering in my stomach like a nest of hissing snakes.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper as I take the garment from her hands.
It’s a…dress. A pretty dress, admittedly, with a sweetheart neckline and laces that crisscross across the back. The color, though, is an unassuming gray that almost blends in with the walls and floor of the room.
“You can let me go and—”
“Silence.” She waves a hand in the air, her eyes as hard as granite. “Get naked. Now.”
I study her carefully, taking in the tense set of her shoulders and the way her fingers inch toward the holster at her side.
She has a weapon. Probably multiple.
I don’t.
There’s no way I can take her out. And who the hell knows who’s waiting outside the door?
I suppose I have to play along—for now.
Wordlessly, I begin to remove the fancy attire I donned as Teddie. When I reach my bodysuit, a burst of self-consciousness and shame arrows through me, but I quickly shove the emotions aside.
I may be a prisoner, but I refuse to cower.
Gritting my teeth, I strip down entirely—leaving my hate-filled gaze trained on the soldier—and then toss the dress over my head. It hangs limply on my body, but I don’t make a move to straighten or tighten it.
Fuck her.
Fuck them.
The soldier continues to stare at me, her expression impassive, before she nods once, seemingly satisfied.
She turns to open the door with a brisk, “Come on.”
I move to take a step, but two guards materialize seemingly out of nowhere and stand on either side of me, each taking an arm.
Apparently they don’t trust me to walk on my own.
Noted.
Hot anger churns in my belly and migrates all the way to the tips of my toes. It feeds a burst of adrenaline that zings through my muscles.
I won’t allow them to use me the way they did before.
I refuse.
The fear is still there—of course it is—but it’s not as potent as it was when I was first taken. Rage has shoved it aside and made itself front and center.
A part of me wants to believe that someone will come for me. Save me. Rescue me. That same part desperately hopes it’s my guys—my scent matches. But hope is a funny thing. It can build you up piece by piece and then crumble just as quickly, turning into nothing but dust.
No one saw me get taken.
No one knows I’m here.
My heart makes a mad dash up my throat, trying desperately to escape.
No one knows I’m here.
That one sentence plays on a continuous loop in my head, reverberating like a tuning fork striking metal.
No one knows I’m here.
No one knows I’m here.
No one knows I’m here.
No one—
We enter a large room in what appears to be a warehouse. Shafts of pale light filter through cracks in high windows, cutting through a haze of dust that hangs stagnant in the air.
The concrete floor is cracked and uneven, littered with the remnants of a busier time—splintered pallets, scraps of papers, and the brittle shells of long-dead machinery.
Water drips steadily from a leaky pipe somewhere in the dark, echoing through the cavernous space.
The smell is a mix of mildew, oil, and cold metal.
Most of the soldiers are here, their eyes intent on me like lions tracking a gazelle.
I force my chin high, trying to pretend I’m not being marched forward like a witch to the gallows.
Directly in front of me is a setup of computers and monitors. Two men sit in wheelie chairs, alternating their attention between the various screens.
“We’re all ready,” one of the men says, giving my captors a nod.
I’m led past them and toward the far wall, where a white sheet cascades down. A single stool rests directly in front of it. Waiting for me.
And in front of that is a camera.
Then he steps out. The man who spoke. A Noth with dark hair who immediately thickens my throat with terror.
Pedro.
Of all the Noth bastards who tortured me last time, he was the worst.
He is the boogeyman made flesh. A source of recurring nightmares. But I’d thought he was gone. Now he stands before me, no longer a figment of my imagination, but a real human being.
“We’ll let you go afterwards,” Pedro says, his lips stretching in a macabre smile that he probably thinks is comforting.
Fear prickles the back of my neck, anticipation racing along after it.
“No.” I shake my head adamantly. “I won’t do it. You’ll kill me either way.”
I glance at the first cue card and read some gibberish.
The Harpax Project is a war crime…
What the hell is this nonsense?
I’m not playing this game. Not this time.
The man glances at someone over my shoulder, and in the next second, a pair of hands grabs my wrists and holds them together behind my back. Someone else aims a fist at my face. I try to duck out of the way, try to twist my head to the side, but with the arms restraining me, it’s futile.
Pain explodes where his fist connects with my cheekbone.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” The man from my nightmares is still maniacally smiling, an expression I wish I could scratch from his face with my fingernails.
A laugh bubbles in the back of my throat—dry and humorless, laced with grim understanding.
There’s no way out of this.
I’m stuck.
But I won’t be beaten.
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
Anger hardens the sharp line of his jaw, and it tics. “The hard way it is, then.”
I close my eyes and brace myself.
“Sit,” the guard holding my right arm grunts.
“No,” I grit out, my heart galloping in my chest.
I see the backhand coming and just barely manage to duck out of the way.
Satisfaction thrums through my veins at avoiding the hit, but it quickly dissipates when someone grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling my head back.
Pain reverberates through my scalp, and I cry out before I can stop myself. Tears burn my eyes.
The guard still clutching my hair drags me toward the stool and thrusts me onto it. When he steps away, he’s holding a chunk of my blonde curls. A pleased smile crooks up his lips before he smothers it.
“Asshole,” I hiss, trying to muster a bravado I no longer feel.
The fear is back.
Full force.
“You will read what’s on these cue cards, little Princess,” the ringleader growls, moving to the side of the camera.
The bulky man folds his arms over his chest and glares at me.
I only discovered Pedro’s name after I was rescued the first time around. I made the mistake of sifting through my parents’ files and found a picture of this despicable man, as well as a dossier of all his crimes.
Apparently he’s an assassin for hire. A mercenary. The black sheep of our neighboring kingdom who does the jobs everyone else refuses to do.
Including kidnapping me.