10. Eva
EVA
They come for me that evening.
I only know it’s evening because Greta brought dinner a little while ago. Meals are the only way I can keep track of time in this place.
Two massive men step into the room.
One jerks his head toward the door.
“Get up,” he says. “We’re going on a field trip.”
Neither of them looks at me for longer than necessary.
I'm just cargo.
One grabs my arm while the other yanks my wrists behind me. The cold metal cuffs click shut before I can even react.
“Seriously?” I snap. “You guys don’t think this is overkill?”
No answer.
Of course.
They haul me up. I dig in my heels for a second, just to be stubborn. Their grip only gets tighter, fingers pressing into my arm until I flinch.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Got it. Cooperation.”
The blindfold comes next.
Suddenly, everything goes dark.
My stomach dips.
I hate that.
Hate not being able to see, not knowing where I am.
“Really?” I start, but the gag cuts me off. I jerk back on instinct, but it’s already tied tight behind my head.
I breathe through my nose, forcing myself to stay calm.
You’re fine.
You’re fine, Eva.
They move so fast I stumble right away, thrown off by the blindfold. Neither one slows down. They drag me along until I finally keep up.
Count.
I force myself to focus, trying to hold onto something real.
One. Two. Three.
A turn.
Four. Five. Six?—
No.
Wait.
Was that left or right?
Shit.
They keep speeding up and slowing down.
Changing direction.
I can’t keep track of anything.
Which only pisses me off more.
My father trained his men for situations like this.
Interrogation resistance.
Escape techniques.
Weapons training.
Hand-to-hand combat.
The Saints invested heavily in making their men harder to break.
Me?
What I got was basically charm school compared to that.
Smile pretty.
Stay useful.
Don’t embarrass the family.
Everything practical I know, I had to learn on my own.
And now, that feels nowhere near enough.
We stop abruptly, and one lets go of me. I hear footsteps moving away and a nearby door opening. Voices filter in, muffled at first, then clearer.
A television.
Something loud and fast-paced.
Sports, I think.
“…unbelievable performance tonight…”
“…goalie—”
Then a younger voice, animated and impressed.
“Hudson is a fucking animal tonight. He’s practically standing on his head out there. What a beast.”
My pulse stutters.
Hudson.
The name lands hard and immediately.
The scarred man.
The one who pinned me to that bed with his hand around my throat and a look in his eyes that still won’t leave me alone.
I try to swallow, but the gag makes it almost impossible.
Another voice follows, older, calmer, threaded with quiet authority.
“Makes up for the shitty game he had the other night, I suppose.”
There is a brief silence, and then the man adds, “Excuse me, Lucian, I have some business to attend to. Text me details about the rest of the game, please.”
“Will do,” the younger man says.
Martin.
It clicks into place instantly.
The voice.
The tone.
The one in charge.
The one who smiled when he talked about “helpful.”
The guard returns a second later and clamps a hand around my arm again.
We start moving.
Faster now.
More purposeful.
Whatever this is, it’s happening now.
A door opens.
The air changes instantly. It’s colder and cleaner, and it doesn’t smell like concrete and grease anymore.
Then the enclosed shift of space tells me we’ve stepped into an elevator. It hums briefly before dropping downward.
The ride is short. The doors open, and we’re moving again almost immediately.
A keypad beeps.
A door unlocks and swings open.
I’m shoved hard enough that I lose my footing completely.
My hip slams painfully into something cold and metallic.
A table.
I twist instinctively, trying to push myself up, but hands shove me back down. They take off my cuffs, and for a second, I feel a rush of relief.
But that relief vanishes as soon as they start tying me up with rope instead.
They pull my wrists tight and tie them down, then do the same to my ankles, spreading me out like a starfish so I can’t move at all.
They take off the gag, and I gulp in air, my lungs desperate for it.
“Thanks, gentlemen,” the older voice says, and my stomach clenches with nerves. “That’s all for now. I’ll let you know when she’s ready to go back.”
The men leave, and after the door shuts, Martin takes off my blindfold. He does it gently, his fingers brushing my jaw, and it makes my skin crawl.
I think about fighting him, but something about his eyes spikes my fear.
The lights in here are painfully bright.
I squint, blinking rapidly as the room comes into focus.
It looks more like a hospital operating room.
White walls.
Metal surfaces.
A rolling IV pole.
Too bright.
Too clean.
It’s as cold as a morgue. I shiver nonstop, feeling like some kind of lab rat.
Martin rolls up the sleeves of his black dress shirt, showing an Iron Eagle tattoo on his forearm. He opens a drawer, takes out several tools, and sets them on the metal tray. Then he hangs a bag of fluid on the pole and unwinds the tubing.
My stomach twists.
“Wow,” I say, my voice rough but steady. “You always go full psychopath, or am I just special?”
“This process can be stressful,” he explains, as if he’s explaining a basic medical procedure. “It can take a lot out of a person, so I like to make sure you’re well hydrated. Can’t have you passing out on me.”
He searches for a vein in my wrist, then suddenly pushes in a big needle. I grit my teeth as the cool fluid flows in. I shiver again.
Martin doesn’t rush.
That’s the first thing I notice.
He doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t threaten. Doesn’t posture the way men like him usually do when they want something.
He prepares.
He sets up a camera on a tripod in front of me, checks the view, and switches it on. The red light glows—a warning I can’t ignore.
“Let me guess,” I say, forcing a dry edge into my tone. “You’re sending this to my dad? Family updates?”
Martin looks at me then. Really looks.
His gaze is calm. Almost curious.
It’s like he wants to take me apart just to figure out what makes me tick.
"Your father is a powerful man," he says.
"No shit."
"And powerful men tend to react poorly when reminded they aren't fully in control."
I shift against the ropes.
"So this is leverage."
His mouth curves faintly.
"Yes."
I force myself to stay calm.
"You kidnapped the wrong daughter, then. I'm not exactly priceless to him."
Martin studies me for a moment.
"No," he says calmly. "Your father cares."
The certainty in his voice makes me uneasy.
"He's simply choosing patience over panic."
My stomach tightens.
"Jonas believes time favors him," Martin continues. "He believes I'll become impatient. Emotional. That eventually I'll overplay my hand."
His fingers tap once against the metal tray.
"He also believes your body can withstand a certain amount of damage before negotiations become impossible."
A cold wave rushes through me.
Martin smiles faintly.
"Everyone mistakes restraint for weakness."
His gaze settles on me.
"They usually learn better."
He adjusts the camera.
Checks the angle.
Then he steps into frame.
And just like that, I’m not a person anymore; I’m just a message.
Martin’s attention shifts beyond me now, directed toward whoever will eventually watch this recording.
“This is proof of life for Eva Sorenson,” he sounds terrifyingly composed.
I go still.
Every instinct in me sharpens.
“She is currently in the custody and care of the Iron Eagles,” he continues, “and will be returned when appropriate terms are agreed upon.”
Custody and care?
The words are so ridiculous they barely feel real.
My fingers curl helplessly against the ropes.
“At present, Miss Sorenson remains unharmed.” His gaze flicks toward me briefly. “Whether that continues depends entirely on the cooperation of her father.”
A chill slides down my spine.
“Jonas Sorenson understands exactly what this situation requires,” Martin says. “Unfortunately, he also appears to believe delay is a strategy.”
He keeps talking while I lie there strapped to the table, shaking.
His gaze lingers for a moment.
Then he reaches for a tool on the tray, metal glinting under the lights.
“Let’s start simple,” he says.
My stomach sinks.
“Tell me something useful,” he continues, calm as ever. “And we can keep this…civil.”
I let out a short, sharp laugh.
“You’re wasting your time,” I tell him. “I don’t know anything worth this.”
“We’ll determine that ourselves.”
“You’re going to be disappointed.”
Martin remains silent for a long moment.
Then he smiles.
Cold.
Certain.
“That’s the advantage of patience,” he says softly. “Eventually, people start telling you things just to make the hurting stop.”
My chest tightens.
Because now I finally get what Martin really is.
This was never going to be quick.
And it was definitely never going to be painless.