Chapter 3 Vivianne Bait
THREE
Vivianne: Bait
Other than the low drone of a generator, silence presses in. My last memory is the foul stench of whatever saturated that cloth.
Drugged and kidnapped, I wake to darkness.
I blink, but the blackness remains, as does the scratchiness of cloth over my face.
Still hooded.
My toes drum against the floor beneath my feet—concrete, from the sound of it. Whoever took me hasn't bothered to remove my shoes or strip me. The tight embrace of my gown still hugs my skin.
Small mercies.
They aren't interested in raping me—at least, not yet. I mean more to them intact than defiled. I take whatever hope I can find.
The floor is concrete. I could be anywhere—a warehouse, deep underground, an isolated prison cell. A basement. A shipping container.
I struggle, whipping my head back and forth, and the cloth slowly works its way loose. With a final violent shake, I free myself from the offensive hood.
An old-fashioned bulb hangs from a bare wire overhead, suspended from a thick iron beam. The pool of light fades into darkness in every direction. My metal chair is the only piece of furniture in sight.
A warehouse. Abandoned, from the looks of it.
The concrete is old and cracked, layers of dirt and dust coating the floor.
It's chilly—not the frigid temperatures of the mountains, but the cold night air around Lac Léman.
Overhead, gaps in the ceiling reveal the ragged outlines of a starry sky against the roof's darker blackness.
Still night, then.
Heavy steps approach from behind me. I stop moving, unsure whether to twist around and locate my kidnapper or continue facing away. My heart races, pounding so loud I'm sure he can hear it.
"I see you've divested yourself of the hood."
A man. Not surprising. Kidnapping tends to be a masculine-dominated sport. I expect at least one. There are probably others, although only one pair of feet approaches.
"I suppose introductions are in order." His deep baritone reverberates in the stillness of the warehouse. In another place, the low rumble might be comforting. Power threads through his words, like Paul's, but this man's voice occupies a lower register. Rolling thunder across a stormy night.
I jerk as he stops behind my chair. The scent of his cologne washes over me—sexy and sophisticated, warring with my mental image of a grizzled street criminal.
He pauses as if waiting for a response, but I have nothing to say.
"It's okay." His tone softens. "I know quite a bit about you, but I'm fairly certain the same is not true for you." A tsk sound. "I'm not sure the same wouldn't be said for my brother. I'm wondering, though, if you know who he is."
He means to bait me. I don't rise to it.
Give as little information as possible, Viv.
My father taught me those lessons.
Humanize yourself if ever placed in the position of a victim.
People hurt things. They kill things. My goal is to ensure this man sees me as a person and not as a disposable thing.
"Who are you?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He knows who I am and holds the advantage. Asking why I've been taken might be the more pertinent question, but the directness of that line of questioning doesn't humanize our interaction.
"Now, that's an interesting question, Miss Faulks.
I've been many things to many people. An unwanted child.
A survivor of the streets. I've been poorer than a street rat and richer than most men.
I've been beaten and used, cherished and loved.
I've been both the favored and prodigal son.
I'm a brother to a man I hate and to a sister I once loved more than life itself.
" He pauses. "Who are you, Miss Faulks? Are you any of those?
Or are you simply a spoiled, rich brat with far too much wealth and a family name you don't deserve? Who are you?"
"I'm just me."
But that's a lie. And, more importantly, he knows it.
"Just you?" A scoff. "I suppose, in the deep of night, that's all any of us are. But, for now, you're nothing but bait in a trap."
"B-bait?" The stammer betrays me.
He doesn't answer, and there's nothing humanizing about being called bait. Bait is disposable. My survival depends on changing that status.
"My father—"
"I care nothing about your father." He cuts me off.
"You're not here because of him, and if you're offering yourself up for ransom, we should clear that up right now.
There's a price on your head—one my brother will no doubt pay, but you're not valued by the size of your father's bank account. That's not why you're here."
“Then why?"
“Because for now, you're useful to me."
"And who are you that I'm useful to you?"
"My father once called me son. My brother calls me Nicholas. And, at one time, my sister called me something else, but you might know me best by another name."
Another name?
I wish he'd stop toying with me. He taunts me to ask the obvious, but I'm unwilling to play his game. Our conversation is doing nothing to humanize me in his eyes. If anything, I'm accomplishing the opposite of what I need.
He bends over. His breath is hot against my nape. I shiver.
"My brother made his choice, my dear. Imagine my surprise when he chose you over Merlin."
Merlin?
A legend within the art community—the mastermind behind countless art heists dating back to the French Resistance. His name is spoken with reverence, respect, and a little bit of fear. The original modern-day Robin Hood, taking back art looted by the Nazis and returning it to its rightful owners.
A cause Paul has now assumed.
It can't be…
Paul never mentioned a father. He's an orphan, but if this man speaks the truth—Merlin and Paul?
Merlin and the Starling.
Which means…
"My brother will pay.” The Crow's voice booms through the cavernous warehouse.
"And what will happen to me?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
"I have no interest in you."
The words land like a death sentence. No ransom value. No leverage once Paul complies. Just... nothing.
My throat tightens. Somehow, that terrifies me more than any threat could have.