Chapter 5
Chapter Five
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C ora
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I jolt awake. For a moment, everything around me is dark and unnerving. I’m disoriented, but as my heart pounds, reality slips into my consciousness, and I recognize exactly where I am and why I’m here.
My skin pulls tight, and my stomach knots. I sense them before I see them, their presence ominous and overwhelming, strangling the breath from my throat. My imagination is not playing tricks on me.
My gaze falls on three shadows. My eyes widen as the room becomes clearer under the gray light of the storm outside, and I take in the sight of them.
Oh god, this is really happening.
They’re here. In this room. With me. How long have they been watching me sleep? How did I not hear them come in? I shake my head at my foolish questions. They’re mafia kings, silent killers; they move like predators in designer suits.
Fear takes on a new form as I force myself to roll out of bed; my bulky clothes make the motion anything but elegant.
I open my mouth to say something, but all my faculties abandon me except for my sight. All I see is them.
Three men, well over six feet four, their suits tailored for lean bodies, ripped with undeniable muscle underneath. My throat dries, and my eyes lower from their substantially wide shoulders and broad chests down to their fully muscular thighs and then to their shiny black shoes.
A light is switched on, illuminating everything about them.
They’ll never know that sometimes, before I fall asleep, I see their images in my mind. I have no idea why I was fascinated with them. They’re bad men, but that didn’t stop me.
With his hands in the pockets of his suit pants and his dark, wavy hair brushed back and glinting under the fluorescent light, Flinn Calloway is a sight to behold. He seems deceptively easy to approach, but beneath his calm demeanor lies a man trained to be a mafia king.
A new kind of quivering works its way through me as his deep brown eyes roam over me, from my face peeking out of the hoodie to my trembling lips. He lowers his gaze to my hands, clenched so tightly at my sides they might never uncurl.
There’s nothing lazy about his focus on me.
He’s studying me with casual ease and curiosity, wordlessly unearthing me and making me feel naked under his gaze.
As he looks down at my sock-covered feet, all I see is the thickness of his eyelashes casting shadows across his sculpted cheeks.
His structured jaw is set in thought as he works his way back up to my face.
My focus shifts to Sinclair Jones, as if he commanded my attention without saying a word. My breath catches in my throat. I’m already under too much duress, and yet the sheer attractiveness of his face adds another layer of chaos to my thoughts.
While Flinn studies me with careful interest, Sinclair's bold analysis leaves me nowhere to hide. His dark blue eyes reel me in and then seduce all control from me.
His mouth spreads into a smile so striking I can’t breathe.
It’s slow and a little lopsided, but there’s also a dare in the way his full, sensual lips curl.
A taunt, but I don’t know what he wants from me.
With his chiseled jaw and dark hair—longer than Flinn’s—that curls on his collar, he stands like a man who is always accustomed to getting what he wants.
I whip my gaze away from him. I don’t want to give him anything. I don’t want Flinn to coax my secrets out of me with just one glance either.
So I turn to Kian Saywell.
But the instant my attention shifts to him, and I hold it for a mere second, his thick-lashed, arctic green eyes dismiss me as if I’m unworthy of his regard.
He gave me a flicker of attention before discarding me.
But I can’t seem to wrench myself away from him.
I’m equally mesmerized and terrified. His jet-black hair and impossibly tightly clenched jaw—everything about him seems set in cold marble—frighten me, yet I can’t look away.
Yet he’s cast me aside without a thought.
Finally, my instinct for self-preservation kicks in, and I take the breath I had been holding the whole time.
This is real. This is happening.
Except I hadn’t prepared for them. I had a plan—a good one. The moment they chose me as the sacrifice, I knew I had to do something to help myself. Whatever it took. No holds barred. I was determined to resort to anything that would aid me.
And the only person who could help me? My mom’s oldest friend. Kamara was a chemist turned fortune teller. She also sold remedies in tiny vials for every ailment known to mankind from her dusty little store in the city.
She sent me back with three vials filled with a colorless liquid, free of charge, and with a guarantee they would work, or she couldn’t call herself Madame Kamara of the Earth anymore.
Did I consult an eccentric green-haired lady for a potion to save me from a horrible fate I had to endure to protect my family? I did. I put my trust in some herbs and a prayer.
And if it didn’t work, I was prepared to hit William Arlington over the head with a saucepan hard enough to give him amnesia for the next three days so he’d couldn’t question anything.
But these three men? What options do I have? I can’t fight them. I’d be crazy to even try. I can’t lace their drinks with the concoction Kamara gave me. They’re too big, too tall, too strong. And there are three of them.
One dose of the potion—as Kamara called it—a medley of flowers and salts and god knows what else, was enough to knock out a single average-sized man for one night. William Arlington was an average-sized man, and he was older.
I was meant to mix a vial into his drink. The result? It would put him to sleep immediately, and because of the aphrodisiac properties in some of the ingredients, he would wake up hungover, with flashes of memory that, despite being vague, would lead him to believe something happened between us.
It was so perfect. I would have escaped unscathed. These men, I could maybe knock them out for twenty-minutes if I were lucky. I’m never lucky.
Now I have nothing. Only my body.