Tone
A home pregnancy test was one thing. I needed more than that. Something clinical. Final. Impossible to argue with.
Izzy already knew and had been trying to make me see it. I just wasn’t ready to believe her or face the truth of my predicament.
With my background in medicine, finding a doctor who could be trusted—and who knew how to keep his mouth shut—was easy. Getting in and out without drawing attention should’ve been just as simple.
It wasn’t.
The building itself was nondescript, wedged between two businesses that had no signage. No indication of what operated behind closed doors.
My doctor worked out of an unmarked suite, dealing with the kind of people that had more dollars than sense, and didn’t want questions asked.
Exactly how he liked it. And exactly what I needed.
Raze’s men were out front.
It seemed like there was an army of them. And he insisted I carried them with me everywhere.
The smallest mercy was that they remained outside, stationed by the front door of the building.
Because logically, that’s where a possible threat would come from.
The front. Always the main entry.
I stepped out of the consulting room, file tucked under my arm, mind still spinning from what I’d just confirmed—what I was now carrying inside me—and all the ways it was about to change everything.
Which is exactly why I didn’t notice the stranger walking toward me.
My head was somewhere else—spinning, heavy, choking on a future I couldn’t see, let alone control.
He came out of nowhere.
One second I was walking. The next, a hand slammed over my mouth—hot, suffocating, cutting off the air before I could even take a breath.
My body reacted before my mind caught up.
My elbow went back hard.
My heel down slammed down sharp.
I drove it straight into his foot, twisting with everything I had.
The thin spike of my heel bit through leather and into bone, and for once, I was grateful for the stupid things.
Heels as weapons. A flash of irritation cut through the adrenaline—because I knew, sooner or later, I’d have to give them up.
Trade them for something softer. Safer. Practical.
If I lived long enough for that to matter.
Right now, all I had was instinct, will, and the sinking realization that I was on my own.
As a man tried to snatch me.
He grunted, his grip tightening instead of loosening.
“Easy,” he muttered against my ear, voice thick with an accent I didn’t recognize. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
I bit his hand hard.
He swore, jerking back just enough for me to suck in a breath—and then the world went dark.
Rough fabric dragged over my head, and I struggled ferociously, preventing it from covering my face. The smell of hessian hit instantly—damp, stale, suffocating.
My stomach flipped violently. I turned my head just in time and threw up. Right down the front of him.
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then the man cursed.
“Fuck’s sake!”
I coughed, wiping my mouth against my shoulder, breath ragged.
He swore again, something sharp and foreign, before he yanked the sack over my head and shoved me forward.
“Move,” he snapped.
I dug my heels in.
But he only shoved harder.
I twisted, trying to break his hold, trying to orient myself despite the darkness and the reek and the adrenaline surging through my veins.
Another set of hands grabbed me. Stronger and less patient.
They forced my arms back, wrenching them behind me until pain shot up my shoulders.
I hissed but didn’t stop fighting as my body reacted to the invasion.
Protect.
That was all that mattered.
Protect.
I lashed out again, catching someone in the shin. There was a grunt, a muttered curse. Fingers dug harder into my arms.
“Hold her still!”
“I am—she’s—”
“Jesus, she’s a fucking animal—”
Damn right I was.
Because this wasn’t just about me anymore.
My wrists were yanked together, something rough biting into my skin as they tied them tight behind my back.
They dragged me forward, my feet stumbling over uneven ground as the air shifted—cooler, sharper.
We were outside.
I knew there was a back alley.
There was no way they would risk going out the front. Raze’s men were still out there, watching the wrong door.
Rage flared hot in my chest. I tamped it down. I had to focus.
I counted steps. I listened.
The sound of engines idling nearby. I heard a van door slide open.
They shoved me forward again.
I twisted at the last second, slamming my shoulder into the frame hard enough to make one of them curse again.
“Get her in!”
Hands shoved at me. Rough and unforgiving.
I went down hard onto the floor of the vehicle, my shoulder screaming in protest as the door slammed shut behind me.
The air was thick and stale as I was plunged into even more darkness.
The engine roared to life and we started to move.
I rolled onto my side, wrists straining against the ties, testing them. They were tight, knotted well. I wasn’t dealing with amateurs here.
I forced my breathing to slow—dragging each inhale in, holding it, letting it out like I could steady the chaos clawing up my spine.
Think, Tone. Think.
Distance. Time. Direction.
I mapped it in the dark, piecing it together from motion alone. The first turns came fast—sharp, aggressive, like they were cutting through tight streets. Then the rhythm shifted. Longer stretches. Smoother roads. Fewer stops.
No traffic lights. No pauses. Just speed.
We were leaving the city. I knew it with a certainty that settled cold in my gut.
The engine pushed harder beneath me, the road stretching out, open and unguarded. No congestion. No interruptions. Just a growing distance between me and my life.
My stomach twisted violently, threatening to betray me again, but I locked it down this time—teeth clenched, breath shallow as I pressed my forehead to the cold metal wall.
Protect.
My hand—bound as it was—strained instinctively, trying to reach for my stomach.
Minutes stretched. Yet it felt like hours.
The vehicle slowed eventually, gravel crunching beneath the tyres.
There were voices outside. Then doors opening.
The air changed first. Then the smell hit—sharp, salted, thick enough to coat the back of my throat.
There was no mistaking it. We were at the docks.
They hauled me out again—rougher this time, hands digging in without care. My legs buckled on impact, knees threatening to give, but I locked them fast and forced myself upright before they could see it.
I wouldn’t give them that.
They pushed me forward, too quick, too careless. I stumbled more than once, barely catching myself as they dragged me along. Then my arm was yanked back, hard enough to jolt my shoulder, and I came to an abrupt stop.
Before I could react, they lifted me—brief, disorienting—and dropped me down again.
My heels hit wood.
Hollow. Echoing.
And then the subtle sway set in—back and forth, just enough to turn my stomach and confirm what I already knew.
I was on a boat.
I went still and listened.
Footsteps moved with purpose. Metal clinking—chains, loose fittings. The low, steady hum of an engine idling somewhere close, vibrating faintly through the boards beneath my feet.
The air shifted. Like it knew. A cold, creeping chill slid down my spine just as a voice cut through the space, close.
Smooth and measured, familiar in all the wrong ways.
“Well,” he said, a hint of amusement threading through his words. “You’ve made quite the impression.”
My stomach dropped, though it wasn’t from fear. It was something colder.
Recognition. Because I knew that voice well.
Michalo Machado.
I straightened slowly, lifting my chin beneath the sack.
“Untie her hands,” he said.
There was hesitation.
“She’s—”
“I said untie her.”
The rope loosened a second later, my wrists burning as blood rushed back into them.
The sack came off next. Light hit hard. I blinked, my vision adjusting slowly.
And there he was. Exactly as I remembered.
Polished. Controlled. The kind of man who belonged in a boardroom, not standing on a dock with a kidnapped woman in front of him.
I took him in. Then spat at his shoes.
He glanced down at it, then back up at me, unfazed.
“Charming.”
“What do you want?” I snapped. “Because this—in case you didn’t get the memo,” I gestured around us at the boat, the men, the situation “—is a spectacularly bad idea.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “I’m aware of exactly what I’m doing.”
“Are you?” I shot back. “Because you’ve just stepped into territory you clearly don’t understand.”
“I didn’t step into anything,” he said smoothly. “I came by sea.”
My eyes narrowed. Of course he had. Skip the borders.
Skip the checkpoints and the cameras trained on arrivals that mattered.
Come by sea. Where there were no manifests and minimal scrutiny.
No trail anyone could follow in time to matter.
Just open water and blind spots wide enough to disappear into.
It was a cunning, calculated plan, just like he was.
And exactly the kind of move no one would expect from a man like him—because someone with his reach and money, his arrogance… would have taken a plane.
“And now,” he continued, gesturing toward the boat, “we’ll be leaving the same way.”
My pulse spiked.
“What? Where? ”
“Malta,” he said easily. “From there, we’ll take a plane to Spain.”
My jaw tightened. He had really thought this through.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You are…and you will,” he informed me.
“You have no idea who you’ve messed with,” I whispered, incredulous.
“I wasn’t stupid enough to walk into your family’s territory blind,” he added. “I know exactly who I’m dealing with.”
“Clearly not well enough,” I said coldly. “If you hadn’t learn anything from the first time you sent someone to take me.”
His gaze sharpened slightly, but the smile stayed. He stepped closer.
I didn’t move. Didn’t give him an inch.
“I’ve gone to great lengths to get to you,” he said quietly, “and now here you are. You’d better adjust to the idea of having me in your life.”
I laughed. Short. Bitter. Disbelieving.
“You’ve lost your fucking mind.”
“Not at all.”
“You think kidnapping me is going to make me fall into your arms?” I scoffed. “You’re delusional.”
His eyes held mine, steady and certain. If nothing, he was very sure of himself.
“I think,” he said, “that given enough time… you’ll see things differently.”
“Not a chance.”
His smile deepened slightly.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said. “I’ll make you fall in love with me.”
A chill slid down my spine. The words hung there, sounding heavy and wrong.
My stomach twisted, my hand instinctively pressing against it again, shielding, protecting.
Over my dead body.
I met his gaze, something cold settling into place behind my ribs.
“Well, then, I hope you’re ready to die, Machado. Because there’s only one way this ends.”