“It stops at the curb.”
Hadley
The slow drip of water is what I hear first as consciousness creeps back to me. I’m awoken not in the gentle way my mother used to rouse me every morning as a child, but more like a sudden jolt of electricity fighting through the haze. There’s a throb at the back of my skull that makes a migraine look easy, and slowly, with each pound in my cerebellum, my mind puts the pieces back together again, reminding me why I’m here.
I remember Ryder kissing me and leaving the bathroom. I remember going back to the sink to wash my face. I remember the bathroom door opening, and the last thing I remember was the crash of something hard against my skull that came with enough force, my teeth rattled.
From then until now that’s all I remember.
Drip, drip, drip…The water continues its constant rhythm, and the reminder of the cloudiness clears enough for me to open my eyes. That’s when I realize I’m not in my parents’ bathroom, there’s rope around my wrists, and it’s pinning me down to a wooden chair.
I gasp, jolting in the seat, scanning
the square room from left to right.
Fluorescent lights flicker above me. Cement is at my feet, as is the puddle created by dripping water from the ceiling. The air is damp and musky and stale, and the only other thing in this dismal room besides me, the chair, and the rope is the video camera on a stand pointed directly at my face.
I shift against the chair, stopping as the rope burns across my flesh, trying to make sense out of why I’m here. And who would do this to me? Is this happening because the assassination attempt against my father failed? There are just so many questions, and no answers…and I’m more confused than ever.
Once more, I try to free myself, but the rope is tight and unforgiving. “Fuck,” I snap, trying to wiggle free. The walls seem too close. The air too dry. I feel the stickiness on the side of my face that I can only imagine is my blood, and a hot panic begins to flush my skin.
Calm down. Breathe.
Slowly, I force myself to regain control. Panic will get me nowhere but dead. I have no idea what time it is, and I’m not sure if it’s from being hit on the head or if I’ve also been drugged, but my eyes feel heavy, my body even more so.
Ryder…
My chest aches for his strength, but I clamp that rush of emotions down, refusing to go there. No one right now is going to help me but me.
Focusing on my breathing and my surroundings, I glance around the room and don’t see any doors, but there are so many shadows in the corners that I can only assume a door is within one of those dark areas. It’s not the most comforting feeling, considering I don’t know what else is there.
I realize, maybe by instinct, I’m not alone in this room. That’s when two men step out of the shadows, but only one approaches me. I don’t know him. But the fact that I can see his dark eyes, thin face with defined cheekbones, and narrow chin worries me far more than anything else. My captor is not hiding his identity—making me believe he has no intention of letting me go.
Regardless, I study his appearance, taking note of his height. Gosh, he’s tall—maybe six foot five is my guess. He’s not lanky, though; this guy is beefy and all muscle, and it’s pretty obvious he spends many hours working out. He’s dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans and both are tight against his thick frame. But it’s the way he carries himself that garners my attention. He moves closer, his dark boots scuffing against the cement floor. His calmness worries me. A lot.
When he stops in front of me, I don’t even feel like a person. The cold way his dark eyes regard me makes me feel like I’m nothing but a thing, there for him to manipulate in the ways that suit him.
He takes the final step to reach me, and my heart leaps into my throat, my wrists and ankles burning against the chair to get away from him. Instead of coming at me, like I think he’s going to, he thrusts his hand into my hair, messing it up. Then he slides his fingers against my wound. I groan in pain as he drags those same fingers across my face, placing my blood on my cheek and neck.
My stomach roils as he takes my chin, turning my head from side to side before he steps back, clearly pleased by his work.
Then, still silent, he moves back to the other man and returns with a piece of paper. He places it onto my knees.
I look down, fighting my blurry vision, and I read the typed words. My back straightens like a steel rod, and I snap my focus back onto my captor. “What is this? Who are you? What do you want?”
The only response I get from him is a dark grin, and the way his lifeless eyes fill with lust makes me stuff all my insecurities and fears into the place where this guy can’t ever reach. Because this, me being afraid, is something he enjoys.
That’s when I realize who I’m looking at. The man who attempted to kill my father. While I doubt this guy is behind wanting my dad to retire, and maybe it’s the other guy who’s responsible, I don’t doubt my instincts, and they are screaming Killer! at me. It’s there in his eyes. He’s got no soul in them.
“I’m not going to read what’s written here,” I tell him very sternly.
He widens his stance, thrusting his hands into his pockets, eyebrows drawn. “I’m going to turn on this camera and you are going to read what’s written there,” he says in a thick Russian accent. “Do you understand?”
I glance down at the paper and again read what’s written out for me to say. Ryder will see this video. Maybe even my father, too. I might be at a disadvantage, but my parents never raised me to crumble under cruelty. “There’s no way—”
There’s a flash of something in my peripheral vision, and then my breath traps in my throat and I flinch, as cool metal presses against my forehead.
His voice is lower now, chillier. “Do. You. Understand?”