Pounded in the Patch (Dark Nights Collection #1)

Chapter 1

TAKEN

Seraphina

T he rope burns against my wrists as consciousness creeps back in like a thief in the night, stealing away the merciful darkness that had been my refuge.

My eyes flutter open to beams of moonlight trickling in through a window above my head.

The world sways beneath me with a bumpy motion that makes my stomach lurch violently—I'm in a moving vehicle.

The back seat, I realize with growing horror, based on the black leather pressed against my cheek and the way my knees are bent at an awkward, painful angle that suggests I've been unconscious for quite some time.

What the fuck is happening?

Panic and bile rise in my throat as I try to move my arms, only to feel thick rope binding my wrists behind my back.

The coarse fibers dig into my skin with every slight movement, sending sharp stings up my forearms that make me bite back a whimper.

My ankles are tied too, I realize with mounting terror, as I attempt to straighten my legs and feel more rope cutting into the skin above my boots.

This can't be real. This cannot be real.

The steady rumble of the engine fills my ears, a monotonous drone that almost seems to vibrate through my bones. Mixed with it is the sound of tires on gravel—we're moving fast. My heart is racing so quickly I can feel my pulse pounding, each beat echoing through my ears like a war drum.

Think, Seraphina. Think. What's the last thing you remember?

I force myself to focus, to push past the panic and try to piece together how the fuck I ended up here. Memory comes in fragments, disjointed and hazy like trying to remember a dream.

I remember leaving work. The accounting firm's office building, with its millennial gray walls and fluorescent lighting that always makes everything look slightly sickly.

I remember stepping outside into the autumn evening air, crisp and clean with that distinctive October bite.

The scent of fallen leaves had filled my nostrils, mixed with the exhaust from evening traffic and something else…

I remember being excited about something. The weekend, maybe? I had plans, I think. Something I was looking forward to. But what?

Come on. Focus.

I was walking to my car in the parking garage. The click of my heels on the concrete, the way the sound echoed off the walls... I was reaching for my keys, digging through my purse with one hand while balancing my laptop bag and the stack of files I’m supposed to review over the weekend.

And then... nothing.

Nothing .

A complete blank, like someone has taken an eraser to my memory and wiped away everything that came after. The thought makes my skin crawl with unease.

How long have I been unconscious? Where am I? Who is driving this car?

The questions multiply in my mind, each one spawning new terrors. I try to slow my breathing, to think logically right now, but it's nearly impossible when every rational thought is drowned out by the screaming voice in my head that keeps repeating kidnapped, kidnapped, kidnapped .

The leather seat is cold against my cheek, and I can smell something that definitely doesn't belong to me—cologne. Expensive cologne with notes of cedar and smoke and musk. It's not unpleasant, exactly, but it's foreign. Unknown . The scent of a stranger.

My chest tightens, and I force myself to remain still. I don’t want them to know I’m awake yet.

Someone took me. Someone actually took me and tied me up like I'm some kind of animal.

This can't be real. Things like this don't happen to people like me.

I work in accounting, for fuck's sake. I spend my play money on books and pay most of my bills on time…

And I rarely stay up past midnight on weeknights.

I don't have enemies. I don't owe money to dangerous people.

I don't live a life that should get me bound in the back seat of a stranger’s car.

Why me? Why the fuck is this happening to me of all people?

The questions keep coming, providing no answers, only more fear.

My head is pounding—whether from whatever was used to knock me out or from the stress I’m feeling right now, I can't tell. It’s probably both.

My mouth feels cotton-dry, and there's a metallic taste on my tongue that might be blood.

My body aches like I've been in this position for hours, muscles stiff and protesting every small movement.

Stay calm. You have to stay calm and think your way out of this.

But it's almost impossible to stay calm when every instinct I have is screaming at me to fight, to run , to do anything except lie here helplessly while being driven to who knows where for who knows what purpose.

I try to slow my breathing, counting in and out the way I learned in a yoga class I took last summer. In for four, hold for four, out for four. But it comes in sharp, shallow gasps that make my chest burn and my vision blur around the edges. I’m being too loud, which makes me panic even more.

I need to focus on what I can control right now.

The rope around my wrists is thick and rough—probably the kind serial killers use in movies. Whoever did this knows what they're doing. The knots are tight, too.

The vehicle drives like it’s expensive. And the leather seats probably cost more than I make in a month. This isn't some beat-up van or stolen car. This is someone with money, someone with resources.

The mafia?

Could it be? Fuck.

I strain my ears, trying to catch any sound that might give me a clue about where we're going.

No radio. No voices. No GPS giving directions.

Just the steady hum of the engine and the occasional crack of a rock being kicked up beneath the car.

The silence from the large male in the driver's seat is the most terrifying part of it all.

Who are you? I want to scream. What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?

But I keep my mouth shut, because my gut is telling me that staying quiet is safer right now. Let him think I'm still unconscious. Maybe I can learn something that will help me escape. Maybe I can come up with a plan before he realizes I'm awake.

Escape .

How the fuck am I supposed to escape when I'm tied up in the back of a moving car?

I test the bonds around my wrists again, but the rope is unforgiving, with no give in the knots. They’ve done this before—there's no slack, no loose ends to work with, no hope of slipping free.

How many women has he done this to before me?

I try to push the thought away, but it lingers like a poison in my mind, festering and spreading with each passing second. Am I just the latest in a series? Is there some pattern I fit, some type he prefers?

The car takes a turn, and I slide across the seat, my shoulder bumping against the door with a thud. I look down as I wince and try to hold back a gasp, and I’m suddenly aware of what I'm wearing—my sexy vampire costume from the office Halloween party.

That's right. I’m the office slut.

The memory comes rushing back. I went all out this year, wearing a fitted black corset with intricate lace details, a short black skirt, thigh-high boots, and dramatic vampire makeup complete with fake blood effects and plastic fangs.

I'd spent an hour perfecting the blood splatter pattern on my throat and décolletage, wanting to look authentically undead.

If it's still Friday night, I won't be missed until Monday morning when I don't show up for work.

Three days.

No one will even know I'm gone for three fucking days.

My throat closes up so tightly I can barely breathe. Three days is an eternity. Three days is enough time for... for whatever sick plans this psychopath has in mind.

Don't think about it. Don't let your imagination run wild.

But it's too late. My mind is already spinning through possibilities, each one worse than the last. Images from every crime drama I've ever watched, every true crime podcast I've ever listened to, every news story about women who disappeared and were found days or weeks later…

Stop it. Stop it right now. You're going to live through this

Think about solutions, not problems.

Maybe I can reason with him. Maybe I can make him see that this isn't worth the risk.

Maybe I can convince him to let me go. I could try to pay him. Friday was payday. I should have an entire paycheck in my bank account, minus the $7 I spent on coffee before work and the $26 I spent on a salad and mozzarella sticks for lunch.

I know how naive it sounds. Someone who's willing to kidnap a woman isn't going to be swayed by one measly little paycheck, especially when they drive a car this nice. But what else do I have? Brute force is impossible and escape is currently out of the question.

My mind. My body. They’re all I have left.

Can I fuck my way out of this?

Or can I outsmart him?

The car slows slightly, and I feel us turn off one dirty road and onto another, rougher road. Gravel pings against the undercarriage while the driver maneuvers large dips. The ride becomes bumpier, more jarring, and I have to fight to keep my position on the seat.

He's taking me to the middle of fucking nowhere. It’s nearly pitch black outside, and I can’t see shit through the tinted windows.

He’s taking me somewhere no one will hear me scream.

Once again, every true crime story I've ever heard flashes through my mind—they always take them somewhere isolated. Away from help, away from witnesses, away from any hope of rescue.

This is really happening.

This is actually happening to me .

I feel the car slow even more, the gravel giving way to the tires. We're climbing now, I think, based on the way my abs flex to keep my body from rolling backward. Up into hills or mountains, away from civilization, away from safety .

How far is he taking me? How long have we been driving?

Without any reference points, it's impossible to tell. I could be five miles from my house or fifty. I could be in the same state or halfway across the country by now.

Focus on what you can control.