Chapter 31
HARPER
Consciousness returned in fragments, like pieces of a puzzle I couldn't quite fit together.
First, the smell filling my nose and throat with each shallow breath was mildewy that spoke of water damage and years of neglect. Rust tinged air that tasted metallic on my tongue. And underneath it all, something chemical and sweet that made my stomach roll with nausea.
They'd used chloroform or something similar on me like I was some kind of animal to be sedated.
Then, sensation. Cold seeped into my body from beneath me, hard and unforgiving against my right side where I lay.
My cheek pressed against something rough, concrete, I realized distantly, the texture scraping against my skin like sandpaper.
My hands were twisted behind my back at an awkward angle that made my shoulders scream, and something thin and hard cut into my wrists with every small movement.
Zip ties. My wrists were zip-tied.
Pain came next, blooming through the fog of unconsciousness like dark flowers opening all at once.
My head pounded with a vicious intensity that made me want to vomit and my throat was raw and burning.
Had I been screaming? I must have been screaming before they'd drugged me, before everything went dark.
My ribs ached on the right side, sharp and localized, like I'd been dropped or thrown onto something hard.
And underneath all of it, consuming every other thought—
The baby.
Panic flooded through me, cold and visceral, making my heart race so fast. I needed to check. Needed to feel my stomach, to know if—
I tried to move my hands to my belly, an automatic protective gesture that triggered on instinct. But my wrists were bound, the plastic ties digging deeper as I pulled against them, the sharp edges already rubbed my skin raw enough that I could feel wetness around the plastic.
Breathe. Just breathe. Assess the damage. You can freak out later.
I forced myself to take inventory despite the terror clawing at my chest like something alive trying to get out.
I shifted slightly, testing my body for injury.
Everything hurt in that general, all-over way that came from trauma, from being manhandled while unconscious.
But my stomach…I focused all my attention there, searching desperately for any sign that something was wrong with the baby.
No cramping. No sharp pains that would signal miscarriage. No wetness between my legs that would mean bleeding.
Just soreness. Just the ache of being grabbed and drugged and thrown around like a sack of feed.
My eyes felt sealed shut and crusty from whatever the chloroform had done, and it took effort to force them open. The lids stuck together like they'd been glued, and when they finally separated, even the dim light felt like knives stabbing into my skull.
Basement.
The word crystallized as my vision cleared, as details emerged from the blur of tears and chemical residue.
I was in a basement. Of course I was in a basement. Because where else would psychotic kidnappers keep their victims?
Concrete walls were on all sides, but these weren't normal basement walls.
They'd been retrofitted with some kind of thick foam padding covered in dark fabric that must've absorbed sound.
The panels were stained and worn in places, showing use that made my stomach turn.
What had happened in this room that required this level of soundproofing?
The ceiling was lower than it should be, clearly dropped to accommodate more sound-dampening material above.
Where there was normally exposed pipes, there was more of that industrial acoustic foam, creating odd bulges and shapes that cast strange shadows.
The air was stagnant and dead with that particular stillness that came from a space designed to trap sound—and screams.
A single bare bulb hung from a wire in the center of the space, swaying slightly, casting harsh shadows that made everything look like something from a horror movie.
The light was yellow and weak, barely pushing back the darkness in the corners where the foam padding seemed to swallow the illumination.
The floor beneath me was bare concrete, rough and pitted with age. I could feel every imperfection through my jeans, could feel how the chill had already seeped through the denim. My cheek, pressed against the floor, had gone partially numb.
No windows. No ventilation that I could see. Just sealed, soundproofed walls that would swallow any cry for help before it could reach the world above.
How long had I been lying here? Minutes? Hours?
I had no way to know. No windows to show the position of the sun and I couldn't remember anything after Silas pressed that cloth to my face and the world spinning into nothing.
Oh God, Connor must be losing his mind. He came home and found me gone and—
“She's awake.”
The voice shattered my spiraling thoughts. Male and familiar in the worst possible way. Cold and emotionless, stating a fact rather than expressing any kind of human concern.
Silas.
Every muscle in my body locked up with fear so intense it felt like being doused in ice water. My breath caught in my throat, my heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears like drums.
I forced myself to look up, my neck protesting the movement after lying at an odd angle for however long I'd been unconscious. The motion made my head spin and my stomach lurched with nausea I had to swallow back because vomiting while zip-tied would be both humiliating, and potentially dangerous.
Silas stood near the steep wooden stairs that led up to what must be the main living area from this basement tomb.
He looked exactly as I remembered him from his single visit to the boutique, maybe six-two, with the kind of large build that spoke of someone who was stronger than they looked.
His dark hair was cut military-short with cold eyes that held no warmth, no humanity, nothing but professional assessment like I was livestock he was evaluating.
He wore dark jeans and a black jacket despite the warmth of spring.
It was practical clothing that wouldn't show blood, I realized with a surge of terror that made my vision blur.
His hands hung loose at his sides, casual, like this was just another day at the office, like I was just another problem to be solved.
He's done this before.
“About time,” another voice said from behind me, and I tried to twist to see but couldn't manage it with my hands bound and my body still sluggish. Footsteps, heavier than Silas's, the sound of work boots on concrete, and then Armand moved into view.
Shorter than Silas by several inches, stockier, with the kind of utterly forgettable face that would disappear in a crowd within seconds.
Brown hair, brown eyes, medium build. The kind of man you'd pass on the street and never remember.
Perfect camouflage for someone who trafficked women and committed violence for money.
He looked at me with something in his expression that I couldn't quite read. Not sympathy, he was too far gone for that, but discomfort maybe. Like he didn't quite know what to do with a pregnant woman zip-tied on the floor of his torture basement.
“Thought you might have used too much chloroform,” Armand said to Silas, his voice carrying that same discomfort his expression held. “She was out for a while.”
“She's fine.” Silas's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. No emotion. No concern. Just stating facts. “Boss will be here soon. She wanted to see her when she woke up.”
Boss. Morgan.
The thought hit me like a physical blow, making my already racing heart kick into overdrive. Morgan was coming. Morgan who Emma said was completely unhinged. Morgan who wanted me dead. Morgan who was the architect of every nightmare I'd lived through for the past three months.
I tried to push myself up, to get into a sitting position at least so I'd have some dignity when she arrived, so I wouldn't be lying on the floor like a beaten dog.
But with my hands bound behind me and my body still sluggish from whatever drugs they'd used, I couldn't manage it.
My legs wouldn't cooperate, my core muscles too weak, and I ended up flopping back to my side with a grunt of frustration that was more pathetic than dignified.
The movement made my vision swim again, and bile rose to my throat that I barely managed to swallow back. The taste was acidic and chemical, and I had to breathe through my nose for several seconds to keep from vomiting.
“Don't bother trying to get comfortable,” Armand said, and there was definitely discomfort in his voice now. He looked away from me, toward the stairs, like he couldn't quite meet my eyes. “This'll be over soon.”
“Over how?” I managed to ask, my voice coming out hoarse and scratchy like I'd been screaming for hours. “You going to kill me? Kill my baby?” The word baby hung in the air between us, heavy and damning.
Armand's face flickered with guilt, maybe, or just recognition about how far this had gone. His jaw tightened and his hands curled into fists at his sides. But Silas's expression didn't change at all. Still cold. Still empty. Still watching me like I was a problem to be solved rather than a person.
"That's up to the boss," Silas said, his tone suggesting he didn't care one way or the other. "We just do what we're told."
"Even if it's murdering a pregnant woman?" My voice was getting stronger now, anger burned through the residual drug fog and fear.
I had to protect this baby. This tiny, innocent life that had nothing to do with my mistakes, my debts, my disasters. This baby deserved a chance to exist, to be born, to have a life full of love, safety, and all the things I'd never had growing up.