Chapter 2
I wake to nothing. No sound, no light. Just a dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes and the unmistakable sensation that my body is about two seconds behind my brain. For a moment, I think I might still be dreaming. Or dead. Or maybe even hungover without the fun part.
Then I try to move.
My arm twitches, heavy as wet concrete, and my fingers brush fabric. Sheets. Not even nice ones. Rough and scratchy. I inhale sharply, the air cool and stale, and that’s when the panic clicks fully into place.
Okay. So not dead.
I force my eyes open.
The room swims into focus slowly, like my vision is buffering.
Gray walls. Gray floor. Bare. No windows.
No furniture besides the small, uncomfortable bed I’m lying on that I suspect is bolted to the floor and a toilet in the corner that looks more like a hole in the ground.
The only light comes from a single, dim bulb recessed in the ceiling. A room in a basement maybe.
Minimalistic chic. With a flare of abduction.
My mouth tastes like cotton and regret. My tongue is thick in my mouth, uncooperative. Whatever they injected me with seems to be very much a fan of hanging around.
“Cool,” I croak to the empty room, feeling as though I swallowed a dozen razorblades. “This is fine.”
Sitting up is harder than it should be. The room tilts left, then right, then settles just long enough for me to swing my legs over the side of the bed and plant my feet on the floor. The cold seeps straight through the soles of my socks.
Who the fuck stole my shoes?
They must’ve known I’d strangle them with the laces.
I breathe in and out. Slow.
No restraints. That’s…something, I guess.
I stand, wobble, then steady myself with a hand against the wall. It’s cold and smooth, no seams or cracks. Whoever designed this room really committed to the no personality aesthetic.
My gaze moves to the single door on the other side of the room. It’s solid metal with no handle on my side, just a narrow seam. At eye level, there’s a small square panel that might be a camera.
I walk over and knock. Light at first. Polite.
“Hello?” My voice echoes back at me, still too weak. “Hi. I seem to be misplaced.”
Nothing.
I knock again, harder this time. The sound rings through the room and dies.
I wait, giving it a few seconds.
Still nothing.
Okay. New approach.
I raise my fist and start pounding on the door with everything my sluggish body will give me.
“Hey!” I shout. “Those shoes were limited edition DCs, asshole. I better get them back.”
Nothing again. Not even a shift in sound on the other side.
My heart starts to race, adrenaline slamming into whatever’s left of the sedative like they’re having a turf war inside my bloodstream. I keep banging anyway because stopping would mean thinking. And thinking feels dangerous right now.
“Okay, fine,” I say breathlessly, leaning my forehead against the cool metal. “This is about money, right? My uncle’s rich. Like, disturbingly, filthy rich. This could’ve been an email.”
That’s what this has to be about, right? My family’s pretty fucking rich because of the Institute. It’s not like I have any enemies, and I can’t imagine my dad or Malcolm having any either. It has to be a simple case of kidnap the Bellrose heir for money.
I slide my hand down the door, fingers leaving faint smears of sweat behind. My arms feel like lead. My head swims harder, the edges of my vision darkening and blurring like someone’s slowly dimming the lights. I take a step back, then another, my balance finally giving up the fight.
“Rude.”
My weak whisper gets lost in the air as I sink down the wall behind me until I hit the floor. I pull my knees loosely to my chest, my breathing uneven, shallow and fast, like my body’s finally caught up to the idea that something is very, very wrong.
My eyelids grow impossibly heavy. I blink once. Twice. The room pulses softly, all the gray darkening.
The drugs win.
The last thing I register is the floor against my cheek and the faint, ridiculous thought that I should’ve read the fine print on being a Bellrose.
Then everything goes black. Again.
The next time I wake, it’s to a sound I don’t recognize. Metal moving, a soft, hydraulic hush followed by a heavy scraping. All my senses drift in and out like a bad signal. There’s an ache in my jaw. My mouth is drier than before. Something cold is pressed against my cheek.
Right. The floor.
When I realize the sound was the door opening, my eyes snap open, heart lurching hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
Light from the other side of the door spills in, casting a long rectangle across the hard floor. A shadow cuts through it, faintly human-shaped.
I push myself up on my elbows, every movement sluggish, as though my body is still negotiating with gravity.
Gravity wins.
With a groan, I give up and let my body collapse back onto the ground.
“I was nice enough to give you a bed.”
The voice is deep and smooth. Maybe it’s just because everything else is still coming to me in broken, uneven pieces, but I swear he sounds like velvet.
“Yet you sleep on the floor like a dog.”
I don’t look at him. I can’t. If I look at him and see a real person, then all of this becomes real too.
“Wow,” I manage, my voice rough and slow as though it had to wade through syrup on its way up. “You kidnap a guy and immediately start critiquing his sleeping habits. Way to kick a man when he’s down. The floor was closer.”
He makes a small noise, like air through his nose.
And he’s laughing at me?
What a fucking asshole.
“Drink this.”
Something lands on the floor beside me, rolling into my side.
I peer down to see a bottle of water and waste no time forcing my body to cooperate, somehow convincing it to sit up.
I grab the bottle, and it takes me way too long to get the cap untwisted, my hands uncoordinated and clumsy.
As soon as I have it open, I tip it back and gulp down the room temperature water, some dripping down my chin.
Pride is the least of my concerns right now. Nor do I give a fuck if it’s poisoned. My mouth is drier than the fucking Sahara.
After chugging half the bottle in one go, I lower it to my lap and make one fatal mistake.
I look.
My vision swims as I squint up at him, but I can still make him out, like he’s the only clear thing in the room.
He’s tall with broad shoulders. His hair is a soft brown that deepens in the shadows, cut short but just long enough to fall into loose, unruly strands that tumble forward over his forehead.
He has a bit of a five o’clock shadow dusted over his sharp jawline.
It’s hard to tell from here, but his eyes look gray. I swear they’re almost silver.
He’s also dressed too casually for anyone who’s allowed this much control over a locked door. He looks…annoyingly normal. Dark jeans and a gray T-shirt that reveals the veins in his right forearm and the full sleeve of tattoos on his left. Every bit of fabric clings to well-defined muscle.
I guess I was expecting some mad scientist in a lab coat or theatrical villain accessories.
That’s disappointing.
Especially because…
Of course. Of course my kidnapper would be hot.
Figures my luck would land me an abductor who looks like a walking regret.
Trauma, but make it confusing.
The man’s eyes narrow. “What?”
Did I say all of that out loud?
Oh. No. I’m laughing.
I shake my head, trying to rein it in and failing. Spectacularly.
Everything still feels funny and fuzzy. It’s like my body has decided all on its own that this is the most appropriate response to being abducted by a hot stranger and held in some creepy, high-tech basement.
I clamp my mouth shut, but it’s no use. The laughter continues bubbling up, loose and breathy and entirely unhinged.
“Sorry,” I mutter, grinning up at him like I’ve completely lost my grip on reality. Which, to be fair, I might have. “I think the universe is having a joke at my expense is all.”
“Right,” he says flatly, like he regrets every life choice that’s led him to this moment.
Then he turns toward the door.
And for some reason, panic spikes.
Stupid. Reflexive. Very me.
Surely I’d rather be alone than trapped with the very man who kidnapped me?
“Wait.”
He pauses and peers back over his shoulder.
That’s when I see the gun.
It sits snug in a holster at his side, casual and very real, like an exclamation point at the end of the sentence I’ve been desperately trying not to read.
Every hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Okay. New assessment. Alone suddenly sounds great.
My brain briefly supplies the idea of rushing him, grabbing the black handgun, and making a run for it. Then it follows that up with a quick highlight reel of all the ways that would end with me bleeding on the floor like an idiot.
Even at full strength with no drugs still coursing through my system, I wouldn’t win that fight.
Right now? I’d lose it artistically.
But he’s here. He’s waiting and looking at me. If I don’t ask something now, I might not get another chance.
Out of all the questions that I could possibly want answers for, my brain decides that one is the most important.
“Am I going to die here?”
I’m surprised that’s the most steady my voice has been since waking up in this place. He looks surprised too, but I don’t think it’s because of the same thing. He studies me for a long moment, as though he wasn’t prepared for the question. Almost like it’s inconvenient.
Of course, he doesn’t give me an answer.
“Get some more rest. I’ll bring you something to eat a little later.” As he takes a step out the door, he adds, “Don’t forget there’s a fucking bed.”
With that, he exits the room and seals the door shut behind him. I don’t chase him or yell or beg. I just sit here, the bottle of water still held loosely in my hands.
If I squint hard enough, I can almost convince myself this isn’t the worst hostage situation. I’m not tied up. I’m not bleeding. My kidnapper brings water and apparently food. He cares deeply about my sleeping arrangements.
The bar is in hell, but still.
Exhaustion crashes over me again before I can spiral too far. I set the water aside and crawl to the bed on my hands and knees, dignity officially dead, and haul myself up onto the thin mattress. I immediately feel myself being pulled under again.
Next time I wake up, I really hope I’m better at asking questions.