Chapter 14
Harper
I came to consciousness with a jolt, my head aching like I'd been on a three-day drunk. My mouth tasted like I'd licked a rhinoceros ass—that particular blend of copper, bile, and regret that coated my tongue after the worst decisions of my life.
Not my best moment.
I blinked away the grit residing in my eyes like sandpaper against my corneas and took a look around. Not the store—my sanctuary for the last three days, with its flickering fluorescent lights and tacky souvenirs. The place I now inhabited was nothing like I'd expected.
Silk sheets. Actual silk sheets tangled around my legs, the kind that whispered against my skin and cost more than my monthly car payment.
I was sprawled across a king-sized bed with an ornate headboard carved from what looked like mahogany, all scrollwork and expensive craftsmanship—cherubs and vines intertwining in patterns that probably had some symbolic meaning I was too hungover to decipher.
The mattress underneath me felt like sleeping on a cloud made of money, the kind of support that cradled every vertebra with obscene precision.
Above me hung a crystal chandelier, dimly lit and scattering golden light across cream-colored walls like fractured sunlight through champagne.
Real art—oil paintings with visible brushstrokes, the kind you saw behind velvet ropes in museums—decorated the walls.
A Persian rug stretched across hardwood floors polished to an obscene shine, reflecting the light in dancing patterns.
To my left, floor-to-ceiling windows draped with heavy velvet curtains in deep burgundy, the fabric so thick it could probably muffle a scream. To my right, an antique dresser topped with fresh flowers—roses and lilies, their perfume thick in the air—arranged in a cut crystal vase.
This wasn't just a bedroom. This was what happened when you had more money than sense and wanted everyone to know it.
This definitely wasn't the store. Could it be Xabat's ship and somehow he....
Xabat!
Anger and grief cleared the drug-induced cobwebs in my mind with the intensity of a slap, sharp and sudden.
The cops! But they weren't cops because before they'd drugged me, one of them shot Xabat. The memory of him falling to his knees, eyes glazing over as blood poured from a wound at the back of his head, came back with such vivid color it made me gag, my stomach lurching with the force of it.
Xabat was dead.
The sob came from somewhere deep inside. A place I'd locked away after Seth died. But here it was again—that raw, throat-ripping sound that clawed its way out of me like something feral and desperate. I'd lost the two men I loved to a bullet.
And I'd loved Xabat.
The thought hit me with the force of a freight train, undeniable and devastating.
Not the way I'd loved Seth—Seth had been comfort, the warm weight of familiarity, like slipping into a worn hoodie that smelled like home.
The kind of love that wrapped around you like a blanket and whispered that everything would be okay, even when it wouldn't.
But Xabat? Xabat had been wildness and abandon.
A live wire I couldn't stop touching, even though I worried it might burn.
He'd touched a part of me I didn't know existed.
He'd found something raw and hungry in me, something that wanted more than survival, more than just getting through another day.
He'd made me want to live instead of just existing.
With Seth, I'd felt seen. With Xabat, I'd felt discovered.
But now it was gone. All of it, gone.
The tears came hot and fast, soaking the silk pillowcase that probably cost more than my sofa. My chest heaved with the type of grief that left bruises on your ribs from the inside out.
I curled into a ball on the luxury sheets and bawled.
Grief, regret, fear, everything I felt came out in a torrent, and I gave in to it, letting myself spiral.
Part of me could have lain in that bed and cried for the rest of my life, but another part wouldn't let me.
Something deep down in my soul made me sit up and wipe my face.
I remembered nothing after Xabat got shot, save for the prick of a needle at the back of my neck.
Those guys definitely weren't cops. Mercenaries like the guys that invaded my beach house?
Maybe. Whoever they were, it was a good guess that the person after me had caught me.
I just needed to find out who and why. I needed knowledge and understanding.
I needed to escape.
I owed Xabat that much—to fight. He'd given his life to protect me, and I wouldn't let his sacrifice be in vain.
I wouldn't let his death be just another tragedy in a life that seemed to collect them like other people collected stamps.
I was a cop's wife and a warrior's mate. About time I started acting like it.
I threw off the silk sheets and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
The hardwood felt cool against my bare feet, polished smooth as glass.
Someone had changed my clothes while I was out.
Gone were my sweats, replaced with a white cotton nightgown that fell to mid-thigh.
Simple. Expensive. The kind that looked innocent but probably cost three thousand dollars.
The violation made my skin crawl.
I stood, testing my balance. My head swam for a moment, residual effects from whatever they'd pumped into my veins, but I stayed upright. Small victories.
The room had two doors. One directly across from the bed, probably leading to a hallway. The other to my right, partially open—a bathroom, judging by the glimpse of white marble and gold fixtures.
I moved toward the windows first, keeping my steps light despite the rage and fear churning in my gut. The velvet curtains felt heavy in my hands as I pulled them aside, revealing….
Nothing.
Well, not nothing. A view. A lush lawn led from the window to the cliffs and an expanse of ocean beyond.
Beautiful. Isolated. Completely useless.
I pressed my palm against the glass. Warm. Not a window, really, more like a wall. One of those floor-to-ceiling panes that didn't open, purely decorative. Even if I smashed it, I was at least two stories up, maybe three, too far to jump.
I let the curtain fall back into place, my heart hammering against my ribs. Trapped... for now.
Xabat's face flashed through my mind. That half-grin he wore when he thought he was being charming, the way his eyes had softened when he looked at me like I was something beautiful and precious, the way he touched me.
For him, I wouldn't go easy. I would fight. Whatever came through that door, I would fight.
Except what came through the door an hour or so later was a young girl. She couldn't have been over twenty, with long dark hair that fell in glossy waves past her shoulders, caramel skin, and soulful brown eyes that held a depth of terror far exceeding my own.
She carried a silver tray laden with food, the dishes rattling and clinking against each other in a discordant rhythm created by the violent trembling in her hands.
Her knuckles had gone white from gripping the handles, and I could see the muscles in her forearms straining with the effort of keeping the tray level.
"Who are you?" I demanded. The cadence of my voice made her flinch, her shoulders hunching inward as if to make herself smaller, less visible.
"A—Ana, my name is Ana." The words tumbled out in a rush of breath.
She practically dropped the tray onto the mahogany table positioned in front of the window, the dishes clattering dangerously before settling.
The table overlooked the ocean. A nice view, if I were in the mood for that kind of thing, which I decidedly wasn't.
I took a step closer, watching her body language shift into a defensive posture. "Do you live here, Ana?"
A strange look flickered across her delicate features—surprise mixed with something that looked almost like gratitude. As though the simple act of asking about her had caught her completely off guard. Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment she seemed unable to form words.
"I…." she started, then caught her lower lip between her teeth, worrying it. "No, not really."
Strange answer. Then, understanding hit me like cold water. "Did they take you? Kidnap you like they did me?"
Her brown eyes widened considerably, the whites showing all around her irises. "You mean the cat aliens?"
"Cat aliens?" What the fuck?
"They look like hairless cats to me." Ana sighed, a sound heavy with resignation, and turned her attention to the tray where she set about uncovering dishes with slow, mechanical movements.
The smell of food—real food, not the processed garbage I'd been surviving on—made my stomach growl audibly, a sound that seemed obscenely loud in the room.
Hairless cat aliens? Xabat looked like an orc to me, and I'd found him sexy as hell. But I couldn't imagine a scenario where I'd find an alien that looked like a hairless cat anything other than deeply, viscerally creepy. "I haven't seen them. The men who took me were human."
Ana's head snapped up, shock written across her face, eyebrows rising toward her hairline. "You must be special."
"Why do you say that?" I took a step closer to the table, drawn as much by curiosity as by the intoxicating scent of the food. Fresh bread, something with cinnamon, and the rich aroma of real butter.
"The Master only uses his human guards when he wants a light touch.
" She shrugged her slender shoulders, the gesture carrying a disturbing casualness, as though discussing kidnapping and the deployment of mercenaries was as mundane as commenting on the weather.
For her, perhaps it was just another day in whatever nightmare she'd been living.
"Light touch?" I scoffed, my voice dripping with disbelief, each word sharp enough to cut. "They fucking shot the man I love and drugged me."