And I Love You the Most (This Love Hurts 3)

Never once did I think of myself as a princess locked in a tower and waiting on her prince when I was younger. Never did I play the part of damsel in distress. This isn’t a fairytale; my princes lie and cheat and kill. They hide in dark corners and play vicious games with violent men.

Sniffling, I wonder, what’s the likelihood they’ll come save me? What information could possibly lead them here? Is there any indication of who took me?

Given the time that’s passed, my gut sinks and any sense of peace or hope is shattered. If they knew where I was, they would be here by now.

Assuming they had any intention of coming for me.

What keeps me from thinking the worst is that they’re out there, somewhere beyond the confines of this cell where evidence can be found. I’m stuck in here without a single clue.

If I could have given Cody information in that split second I turned around, it would have been that the man was at least six feet, and tanned skin peeked out from the gap between the sleeves of the black sweater and gloves he wore. Not an inch of his face was recognizable, but dark eyes stared back at me from the slit in his mask. His expression was angry and unforgiving.

The only saving grace I have is that my face was covered as well, my vision obscured the entire time. That is the only piece of this puzzle that offers me any hint of reprieve. They didn’t want me to see them, which means perhaps they’ll let me live.

Fate laughs a wretched sound at the thought. The one thread of hope is instantly stripped away from me when a man I recognize all too well appears in the place of the steel door. It opens with a slow creak and as I heave in the air, two men, masked just the same as the one who first struck me, stand behind him.

“Miss Jones.” Brass’s cadence is sickeningly sweet. He greets me as if we’re old friends. “It’s been too long, don’t you think?” He’s the shortest of the three and unarmed, although the two men behind him who are broader and more muscular, each hold a rifle in their hands.

Hired help? My mind whirls with connections and associates. But names mix together and cases bleed into one another as exhaustion and fear work against me.

“Miss Jones?” he repeats and I force my tired eyes up to meet his icy gaze. Herman and Reynolds. The two names linked to Brass ring clearly in my head, and faces are paired with photos of the criminals who got off. The three of them worked together, laundering money and diving into deeper, more sordid crimes. That’s what men do when they have wealth, they indulge in sin and those three together … bile threatens to climb up my throat. Herman’s dead now. I’m fairly sure Marcus killed him because of the threatening note left for me at my office door; everything is circumstantial, though. Herman did have a team who worked with Reynolds. And Reynolds certainly worked with Brass. Does this all have to do with the note? Or with Herman’s murder?

Brass’s teeth are far too perfect, too even and white as he flashes me a crooked grin, the left side of his smile higher than the right. He huffs a laugh and half-heartedly looks behind him at the two men, who stay perfectly still and silent. I stare hard at the other two men, but I’m not certain one could be Reynolds. Perhaps these two are working for them, but their heights and silence don’t match what I know of Reynolds, or at least what I can remember.

Cases flutter in my mind as Brass stalks toward me. The men stay where they are, and the door remains open. I suppose they’re here for intimidation. Ross Brass always was a bit of a repulsive, slimy prick.

I’m not his usual victim. Brief images of the young girls he’s responsible for the deaths of send a chill down my spine. I’m too old for his liking. So this is all about revenge, or maybe it’s a threat.

Please, God, let this be a threat and only that.

“I said, hasn’t it been too long?” Impatience lingers in his question.

“Not long enough,” I manage to answer, ignoring the vicious pain that radiates up my neck and travels down my shoulders as I raise my head to meet his gaze. My own is as hard and cold as ice.

The humor and obvious satisfaction that graced his expression a moment ago falters slightly at my response.

“I had a number of names on the list of vile criminals who could have taken me, but to be honest, you kidnapping me … murdering me … whatever this is,” I say, then half-heartedly attempt a nonchalant gesture. As I do, the back of my teeth slam shut and grind as I swallow down the nearly unbearable pain. I attempt a huff of laughter myself and add, “Well, I didn’t even think you cared that much.”