Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

“Did your brothers reply?”

I check my phone. “Not yet.”

“Let’s leash, then. I mean leave.” He shakes his head. “Are you gonna finish that first?” he points to my second drink.

“Uh . . . no.” I pour half of the new drink into my old glass so Jada won’t be offended. “Let’s go.”

I stand up first, slinging my bag over my arm. When Callum stands, he stumbles slightly.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Just a headache.”

I can see how unsteady he is on his feet. It’s not the whiskey—he only had two shots, and I know from experience that Callum can drink a lot more than that without getting tipsy.

I see Jada standing next to the bar, arms crossed. She looks like a malevolent gargoyle with her leather fox ears, and her lips painted dark purple.

“Let’s get out of here,” I mutter to Callum, slinging his arm over my shoulder.

I’m reminded horribly of the day we met, when I had to carry Sebastian down the pier like this. Callum is just as heavy, slumping over more and more with every step. He’s trying to say something, but his eyes are rolled back, his voice mushy and incoherent.

If I can get him into the car, I can drive us someplace safe and call my brothers.

But just like on the pier, the door seems a million miles away. I’m wading through sand, and I’m never going to make it.

As I reach the exit at last, the bouncers surround me.

“Is there a problem, Miss?”

I’m about to tell them I need someone to help carry Callum over to the car. But then I realize they’re not coming to help us. They’re blocking the door.

I look around at the semi-circle of burly, looming men.

No time to call my brothers.

I do the only thing I can think of.

I slump down like I’m passing out, hoping it won’t hurt too bad when I hit the floor.

22

Callum

I wake up with my hands tied over my head, suspended from a meat hook.

This is not a great position for me. I’m a big dude, and all that weight hanging from my arms for god knows how long makes them feel like they’re about to be pulled out of the sockets.

Plus my head is fucking banging.

The last thing I remember is some dude that wasn’t actually a dude doing the tango across the stage.

Now I’m in some warehouse that stinks of rust and dirt. Under that, a cold, wet, rotting smell.

And it really is fucking cold. Even in my suit jacket, I’m shivering.

Maybe it’s the after-effects of the drugs. My muscles feel weak and shaky. My vision keeps switching from fuzzy to clear, like a pair of binoculars going in and out of focus.

Drugs. Someone drugged