7. Chapter 2
The cold is the first thing I feel when my eyes blink open. It cuts through the sleeve of my shirt, moves like acid under my skin. My exposed legs break out in goose bumps, and a shiver shakes my body, making me draw my legs up.
Awareness peels back in layers and I notice four things at once: My hands are still bound behind my back, I’m lying on a hard surface, and the thin material still covers my head, leaving me in blackness.
And my feet are bare.
A violent rush of memories floods my mind, hitting me like a tidal wave.
The terror. My father forced to his knees. His rage. Clyde. Cora’s terrified screams. Gunshots ringing in my ears. Blood pooling at my feet.
And then, them.
Him.
My heart pounds against my ribcage as the fog in my head lifts. My breathing becomes ragged, panic needling its way into my mind. I breathe out slowly through my mouth. Inhale through my nose. Focus on my body.
My limbs feel weighed down, thick, my head heavy, a dull ache pounding between my temples like I have a terrible hangover. I force myself to stay still and take a minute to assess the situation once I get my breathing under control.
“Cora,” I whisper.
Nothing.
Where is Cora?
Nausea ripples in my belly and I turn my face, pressing my head to the floor to calm it.
They took us. The men we fucked last night—wait. How long has it been? The way my bladder screams for release tells me it’s been many hours, but I don’t think it’s been longer than that. Right? I’d have pissed myself if I had been out any longer.
The memory of a pinch of pain—a needle in my arm—as Striker’s hard command to remain still floods my mind.
They drugged me.
Us.
Cora? Where the fuck is Cora? Where the fuck am I?
I swallow the panic rising in my throat, gritting my teeth, forcing the scream to stay in my mouth. Panicking won’t give me answers, and I need answers. I refuse to succumb to the fear clawing in my head.
Take a breath. Another. Be still and listen. Assess before you react.
My father’s voice echoes in my mind, and I breathe deeply, trying to slow the rising fear. When I have myself in control, I remain still and listen.
Other than my rapid heartbeat and my breathing, I hear nothing. Absolutely nothing. I only know I’m indoors and not outside because of the hard, solid floor underneath me. The air is still. No rustling of leaves, no sounds of animals.
Wait. There is a sound. Distant. The faint crashing of waves against a shore breaks the quiet. I’m near water. An ocean.
That means I’m at least close to home.
Without moving too much, I test the bonds when I remember the slick grating sound and the cutting pain as the zip tie they used to keep me from thrashing around tightened on my wrists. There’s no way I can break them.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to piece together the last few moments before they drugged me. I remember the sound of van doors opening, then being slammed shut. The rattle of containers as the vehicle lurched forward. A horn honking and someone outside the van cursing. The last thing I remember was hearing Cora’s quiet cries before I felt the pinch in my arm. Then nothing.
Until right now.
My shoulder aches, like I’ve been lying in one position for too long. How long?
Why?
I shift slightly, but my body is still sluggish from whatever they injected me with. Adjusting my weight, I use my fingers to feel the floor. It’s rough, lined with thin groves like a wood floor, but worn, not polished. I inhale deeply through my nose, but all I can detect is a faint musty scent that tells me little. It doesn’t smell dank, or like mildew, so that means I’m some place dry. That at least I know. Basements are damp so at least I’m not underground.
Which would be terrible. But that’s what happens when people are kidnapped.
My father’s words fill my head.
Did he send you?
He’s doing this.
He’s come to collect.
My stomach sours.
And I’m here for revenge.
That was the last thing Reaper said before Striker covered my head and drug me away. That simple statement confirms my fears. Someone is using Cora and me to collect on a debt.
Hope spreads through my chest. That means there is a way out of this. My father will stop at nothing to save Cora and me, even if it means paying an exorbitant ransom or unleashing his wrath upon whoever is behind this. I can almost feel Rune’s rage burning inside me, urging me to hold on because he will come for us. He will find us. My father will make them suffer. He’ll use any means necessary to track us down and kill whoever is behind this.
They will find us.
Clyde will burn the fucking world down to get Cora and me back. He may already be on his way here, frothing at the mouth to exact revenge on the people who took us.
But who?
Who had these guys take us?
And who the fuck are these guys?
The way they stormed the lobby and took out the guards means they’re trained. And trained well. Their fatigues and masks were no costumes the other night in the club. Their code names and efficiency screams of military training. Soldiers of some sort, but not like the ones Rune or my father’s associates employ. These guys possess too much skill to be regular security detail or henchmen. They were too brutal. Everything they did was precise. Planned.
Including the way they fucked us.
My stomach roils and I curl in on myself, drawing my knees up to my chest. I clench my teeth, trying to keep the burning rage from erupting as my emotions spiral. This shouldn’t feel so devastating, but it does. The betrayal cuts into me deep, a sharp blade slicing through my chest, leaving behind a searing ache.
How could they have planned to ambush us like this? Last night, they had the chance to strike. Instead, they chose to bide their time, deceiving us so brutally by gaining our trust enough that we willingly spread our legs. Then, they waited for the perfect moment to take us.
In front of my father.
“Fuck!” I scream through clenched teeth. Fucking assholes. They waited on purpose. The men wanted my father to see us taken away from him. They wanted him to know we’d fucked them. Reaper’s sick words slam into me and I think I may actually vomit.
A tear threatens to break loose, but I cannot lose control. “Assholes,” I murmur through clenched teeth. “Fucking assholes.”
“Rather unladylike of you.”
I scream, jerking so violently that my legs kick out. His familiar voice curls around my neck the way his hand had. I suck in air, trying to calm my breathing. I didn’t even hear him nearby.
“Then again, the way you choked on my cock wasn’t becoming of a lady.”
“Fuck you,” I seethe.
“Oh, don’t worry, Princess, you will.” Striker’s boots scrape over the wood floor as he steps closer. “If I remember correctly, you really liked my cum sliding down your throat.”
I clench my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms to keep from responding. That’s what he wants and I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
I hear more shuffling and then the scent of earth and something else I can’t place hits my nose. Something slightly acidic but sweet. Like a cleaner. I didn’t detect it before, so he’s moved closer, or came into the room without making a sound. Now, I hear the faint sound of leather creaking and sense him close. Too close and immediately that bubbling panic tries to return, but I shove it down.
“If you’re a good girl, I’ll untie you and you can have my cock again.”
I bite back another useless retort. It won’t do any good to let him get me riled. That’s all he’s trying to do. Get under my skin. Everything they’ve done to us has been a mind-fuck.
I open my mouth to ask where she is, but stop myself. I cannot let them know she’s important. Men like them will use this information against me. I know because it’s exactly what my father taught me to do. Exploit any and every weakness.
“I have to pee,” I say instead.
Nothing.
“Hope you have a mop,” I say, my throat tightening, cheeks flaming that he may actually let me soil myself. “Because I’m about to piss all over the floor unless you let me use the bathroom.”
A hand lands on my arm, and my entire body jerks before I freeze, fear tingling in my arms and hands. My heart skips in my chest as his hand slides down and he grabs my wrists, yanking them up. I’m forced onto my stomach, pain shooting through my arms. His knee presses into my back between my shoulder blades, and an instant later, my hands are free, but the weight of his knee doesn’t go away. My hands fly out, palms pressing to the cold wood, my chin hitting the floor as my blood pulses, sending sensation back to my limbs.
“You’re going to cooperate,” Striker says, his velvety voice right next to my ear, making my pulse quicken oddly. “When we tell you to do something, you’re going to listen. You will not fight us, scream, or cause any problems.”
His gloved hand slips under my chin, and my head jerks back, breath rushing out. My eyelids flutter in the hood’s darkness as fear laces its way down my spine. My bladder contracts, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to piss myself.
“Do you understand, Princess?”
I nod, and the weight of his knee is lifted.
“This will be easier if you don’t fight us.”
The fabric over my head rips off, and I gasp as the sudden cold hits my face, my eyes scanning the space frantically. A door clicks quietly closed behind me, and I raise to my hands and knees, taking in the sight, arms tingling with pins.
The room’s dim, barely lit by small incandescent sconces on the wall. The large room has wood floors, and tall ceilings with ornate crown molding, the paint chipped and cracked in places. Faded wallpaper covers the top half of the walls, peeling off at the corners, some long strips completely gone. Decorative wood wainscoting covers the lower half, reminding me of an old estate.
My legs wobble as I stand. Pain throbs in my temples and I tilt, dizzy as blood rushes to my arms and legs. I scan the space, rubbing my forearms, as my gaze lands on a massive bed at the far end, resting on a rusted metal frame with a scrolled ironwork head and footboard. A small vanity with a chair sits at the other end of the room. Next to it, a massive armoire made from heavy, dark wood.
I spin to find a door, slightly ajar.
Please be a bathroom.
Rushing forward, I nearly melt with relief when I see the vintage claw-foot tub and clear shower curtain, the sink, and toilet. After I relieve myself noting the stacks of toilet paper and feminine supplies lining the counter, I slowly walk back out to the room.
My eyes land on the heavy floor to ceiling curtains and I dart forward, tossing them back, revealing a massive window. I press my hands to the glass as the landscape slowly reveals itself with the rising sun. My belly sinks. My knees hit the floor, hands sliding down the paned glass squares.
“Where the fuck am I?” I whisper as fear slips through me.
Below, a lawn sprawls out for several yards before falling off abruptly at a short craggy cliff. Waves crash on jagged rocks lining the empty shore, stretching for miles along the coast, smoothing out in some places. The sea stretches out beyond that, nothing but fading stars and a burning sun hung over an endless ocean.