Stolen Love (Beauty in the Stolen 3)

The guard escorts us inside a glass cubicle. From the thickness of the glass, it’s bullet-proof. An alarm beeps. The wall in front of us slides open. From there, we’re led down another short hallway and through a door that gives access to a large hall with marble floors and ethnic art.

It looks like an art museum. Hart Diamonds is written in fancy metal letters over the back wall. Underneath the sign, stands my brother. He’s not the ten-year-old boy with scruffy elbows and banged-up knees from falling off his bike I left behind. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a black power suit with a white shirt and a black tie. Twenty years may have passed, but I’d recognize those hawk-like angles, bitter-brown eyes, and dark hair anywhere. Our features come from the genes on my father’s side. All three brothers look cunningly alike. Only Zoe inherited my mother’s blue eyes.

Damian’s stance isn’t one of a king ruling over his castle. It’s the stance of a king ruling over an empire. From what I’ve seen, he has reason to strike that pose. I asked for a safe place. I couldn’t have gotten better. My little brother’s office tower is more heavily secured than a prison.

Our gazes remain locked as he evaluates me much like I’m reading him, taking everything in with a single glance. Whatever conclusions he comes to, he keeps them tucked away, showing no emotion or judgment as he lifts an arm and indicates an elevator on his right. “Through here.”

On cue, the elevator door opens. Voice controlled. It will be programed to approved voices only. Clever.

We push Cas inside. My gut tightens when I look at her pale face. Her false eyelashes brush her cheeks. Mascara has run black under her eyes. The glossy lipstick has smeared, the red bleeding over her lips. She looks utterly vulnerable. Helpless. Fear and despair hook into my heart, but I shake the sentiments off before they take root. There’s no place for weakness. My priority is making sure she survives and keeping her safe.

Damian follows, his manner curt. “Down one.”

The door closes. There are no floor numbers on the wall panel. Damian folds his arms behind his back, casting an expressionless glance at Cas as the elevator descends smoothly and opens on the next level.

We cross the lobby and enter a large office with huge windows. The blinds are closed. The overhead lights are bright, illuminating a hospital setup in the middle of the floor. A desk, chair, and other glass and chrome office furniture are pushed against the far wall. Several monitors are set up on a desk.

A middle-aged man and a young woman wait next to an operating table. They’re wearing scrubs, masks, and surgical gloves.

“This is where we leave her,” Damian says.

Everything inside me protests. I hover as the men in the tunics lift her from the gurney and place her onto the operating table. I lost her, and now I have her back. I can’t lose her again. I don’t want to let her out of my sight. The woman is already cutting Cas’s top from her body before the men have left.

“Ian,” Damian says.

The fabric falls open, revealing her perfect breasts. Her pale skin is covered in blood. The bone pendant that rests in the center of her breastbone draws my gaze. Instinctively, I grip the one I wear around my neck.

A touch on my arm pulls my attention. I look down. A broad, tanned hand clasps my bicep. Damian.

“Let the doctor do his work,” he says. “They’re trying to keep the room as sterile as possible.”

He’s right.

My soul objects at leaving her as I follow him outside. A protest claws in my chest when the paramedics close the door in my face.

“Come,” Damian says, leading me back to the elevator.

We go up a level and exit in the art gallery slash museum or whatever. I trail behind my brother to double doors while everything inside me demands I go back to her. It’s only reason that allows me to walk through those doors.

I don’t need a tour to know this is Damian’s office. It’s not the top-floor status that gives it away as much as the power emanating from the minimalistic, modern furniture. The setting is a statement of wealth. The view is proof of power.

Walking around his desk, he motions at a door off to the side. “You can clean up in there.”

I glance down at my blood-stained clothes.

“You’ll find clean clothes in the dressing room next to the bathroom.” Sizing me up with a single look, he continues, “We should be more or less the same size.”

Following his instructions, I find a bathroom decorated in black and white with gold trimmings. A small dressing room holds a selection of suits, shirts, ties, and shoes. He must change at the office frequently.