29. Alexandra
I wake up to cold.
Concrete under my cheek. The sharp bite of it cutting through the fog in my head before my eyes even open. My wrists ache, stiff and numb, and when I try to move, pain flares hot and bright enough to steal my breath.
I suck in air and force my eyes open.
The ceiling is high. Industrial. Metal beams crisscrossing overhead, fluorescent lights buzzing weakly, one of them flickering like it can’t decide whether to live or die. The air smells like oil and dust and something sour underneath it all.
A warehouse.
Panic blooms fast and violent, my pulse slamming so hard I feel it in my throat. I try to sit up and hiss when my shoulder screams in protest. Rope bites into my wrists. My ankles are bound too.
Memory crashes back in fragments.
The sidewalk. The sun too bright. My phone in my hand, Rasmus’s name still on the screen.
The sound of tires slowing behind me.
I remember turning, already uneasy. A black van. Doors sliding open too fast. Hands—gloved, rough—grabbing my arms. My bag tearing free, hitting the ground hard enough that I felt it in my teeth.
I fought.
I remember that clearly. Kicking, twisting, nails scraping skin through fabric. A sharp blow to my ribs that knocked the air out of me. Someone swearing. Someone else telling me to hold her still like I was cargo.
Then darkness. Then cold.
My breathing goes shallow.
No—no, don’t fucking spiral, Lex. Panic won’t help.
Cole’s voice lives in the back of my head, calm and solid even now.
Breathe, Lex. Stay with me.
I can’t remember the exact words. Just the shape of them. The way he anchored me when the world tilted.
Something about listing things. Five, maybe. Or four. It doesn’t matter. It worked.
I force myself to do it now.
Concrete under my cheek—cold and rough. That’s one. The buzz of the lights overhead. Two. The ache in my wrists, sharp and real. Three. Oil and dust and something sour in the air. Four. The taste of copper at the back of my tongue. Five.
My breathing slows, just a fraction. Enough to think.
I test the ropes again, carefully this time. Tight. Professionally done. Whoever tied me knew what they were doing—or had done it before.
Footsteps echo again.
Slow. Intentional.
A shadow stretches across the concrete before he steps into view. Justin Whitmore.
“Alexandra,” he says, his voice as smooth as it was in the classroom.
“You shouldn’t be awake yet,” he says, assessing me with that same detached irritation he used when my code wouldn’t run. “But you always were difficult to keep where I put you.”
“You did this,” I rasp.
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re confused, Alexandra. You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic. I think the stress of the exchange program has finally pushed you over the edge.”
“You tried to rape me,” I say, the words landing like lead.
He lets out a soft, condescending chuckle, shaking his head like I’m a student who missed the point of a lecture. “Is that what you’re calling it? I wanted to help you. I offered you my time, my expertise, and you... you panicked.” He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I didn’t even touch you. You weren’t restrained. You weren’t forced. You simply ran out into the night and decided to tell a story that would make you the victim.”
My stomach knots. “You told me to take my clothes off.”
“And you’re choosing to interpret that in the most salacious way possible to justify your own instability,” he counters smoothly. “The university saw right through it. They called it a ‘mutual separation.’ Very civilized.”
He crouches in front of me, his eyes dark. “You didn’t just take my job, Alexandra. You poisoned my reputation. Investors started asking questions. My family’s name—a name that means something in this city—was dragged through the mud because of your hysterics.”
The memory of the agents surfaces—the cold, efficient way they handled me. Tip says you overstayed.
“It was you,” I say, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “You sent the feds.”
His mouth curves into a knowing smile. “I called in a favor. I have a friend high up enough that he can greenlight a pickup without a single signature from a judge. He doesn’t have to answer for sending a team to follow up on an ‘anonymous’ tip—not when it lands directly on his desk. It was almost disappointing how simple it was—a foreign student, a flagged status, a quiet nudge in the right inbox, and the machine just started moving. No questions asked. No paper trail leading back to me.”
“You lied to them,” I snap. “You told them I overstayed.”
“I told them just enough,” he replies. “The beauty of the system is that it doesn’t need a motive when the paperwork looks administrative. I knew your visa was valid. I wasn’t trying to deport you. I just needed to destabilize you. To make sure you knew that without me, you have no standing here.”
He reaches out, his thumb pressing hard against my lip. “The plan was to let them release you, and then I would have collected you myself. But your little biker friend made it so much easier by assaulting federal agents.”
He leans closer, his breath hot against my cheek. “He’s in a cage. There is no cavalry coming, Alexandra. I’m finally going to finish what you interrupted.”
“Rest,” he adds, his voice returning to that chillingly polite tone. “I find I enjoy it more when you have the energy to realize exactly how much you’ve lost.”
The heavy steel door slams shut, the bolt clicking into place with a finality that echoes through the hollow of my chest.
I force my breathing to slow. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. I stay still, listening to the silence, and for the first time, I let the terror touch me.
The warehouse hums around me—electricity, distant traffic, the faint drip of something leaking somewhere far off. No voices. No footsteps. For the moment, I’m alone.
I turn my head as much as the ropes allow.
Concrete stretches in every direction. Metal shelving lines one wall, stacked with crates. A folding table sits a few feet away, just out of reach. On it: duct tape, zip ties, a coil of rope.
And a gun.
My stomach tightens.
I test the bindings again, carefully this time. The rope around my wrists is tight but uneven, knots rushed. My ankles are worse—thicker rope, more secure. My shoulder protests immediately, pain spiking hard enough that black dots swim in my vision.
I bite down on a cry.
If I panic, I waste time.
I inch my wrists toward the floor, dragging them against the concrete. The surface is rough, gritty. It scrapes my skin raw, but the rope shifts—just a fraction.
Hope flares.
I twist, trying to bring my hands under me, closer to the shelving. If I can get the rope against the metal edge—
My foot slips.
The sound is small. Barely more than a scuff.
But it echoes.
Footsteps answer almost immediately.
“Don’t.”
Justin’s voice slices through the space.
The door slams open and he’s on me before I can do more than suck in a breath. He grabs my hair, yanking my head back, pain exploding down my scalp.
“You never learn,” he snaps.
He drags me upright just long enough to shove me hard into the shelving. My shoulder slams first. White-hot pain tears a scream out of me before I can stop it. Crates rattle overhead.
“Always running,” he snarls.
I kick blindly, heel catching his shin. He curses and strikes back—hard. My head snaps sideways, the world tilting violently as I collapse back to the floor.
Then—
Gunshots.
The sound is deafening in the enclosed space. Metal screams. Something shatters. The rolling door at the far end buckles inward.
Justin freezes.
“Stone!” someone shouts.
The name hits like thunder.
Justin lunges for the table.
He’s got the gun in his hand when the door finally gives, crashing inward as boots flood the warehouse. Leather. Patches. Weapons raised.
Cole is at the front.
His face is a mask of fury and terror, eyes locked on me so completely it’s like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.
Justin grabs me, hauling me upright again, one arm crushing my chest as he jams the gun against my side.
“STOP!” he yells. “Everyone stop!”
The room locks down instantly.
“Stone,” someone says behind him.
“Let her go,” Cole says.
Not loud.
Controlled. Terrifying.
Justin laughs, breath hot and ragged near my ear. “Mr. President,” he sneers, masking the tremor in his voice with cold disdain. “I see the cage couldn’t hold the animal after all.”
“Put the gun down,” Cole says. “This ends now.”
Justin’s grip tightens. His hands are shaking.
“She ruined me,” he snaps. “She doesn’t get to walk away.”
Cole takes a step forward anyway.
“No,” he says. “She does.”
Justin panics.
The gun goes off.
Pain slams into my side—hard, concussive, knocking the air clean out of me. My legs give out immediately, Justin losing his hold as I crumple to the floor.
The world goes distant.
Cole is there instantly, dropping to his knees beside me, hands pressing down, voice breaking apart.
“Lex—hey—stay with me,” he pleads. “Look at me. Baby, don’t close your eyes. Don’t you dare.”
His hands are shaking. His voice is wrecked.
“I’ve got you,” he says, desperate. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I want to tell him I know.
That he came.
That he always comes.
But everything is fading, his voice echoing like it’s coming from far away.
“Please,” he begs. “Stay with me.”
His voice is the last thing I hear.
Then everything goes black.