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Right on cue, Thorne pinches his brow and fixes me with steely eyes. “She had to trust me enough to walk out and get into that car voluntarily. You know we needed the dash-cam evidence to prove that she willingly did so. If we ever need to use it as collateral against the bitch, we’ve got it.” He’s bristling beneath that perfectly starched collar of his. Leveling me with the kind of look I’ve worn countless times from both him and his brother since our lives first collided.
I run my tongue over my teeth and stare right back. These assholes taught me everything I know about not flinching.
“Well, I’m just saying, I wouldn’t have minded having her lean that soft little body all over me for a few hours.”
Thorne hits me with an arch of his eyebrow that makes my stomach swoop a little. I hate that after all this time, he still affects me like this, but I can’t seem to ever damn well turn it off. He’s always exuded that stern, in-control kind of vibe, and it’s fucking hot. But I keep that information locked away behind a bolted door.
“You would have tried to fuck her, and Ven would have tried to strangle her.” He taps a forefinger on the leather armrest of his chair. “It had to be me.”
I don’t buy it. There’s more to it than the line he’s feeding me.
“I’ll happily dispose of the bitch. She’d better keep her door locked at night if she wants to see the next morning,” Ven says through gritted teeth.
Thorne makes a disapproving sound.
“I might still try to fuck her. A hate fuck is fine by me.” A smirk plays on my lips as the jet gathers speed. That’s not a lie. She’s just my type, and my dick is more than interested.
Especially since this girl is ours to control and own and command like a good little piece of ass from now on.
A shame such a pretty thing has to be locked away. But what would vengeance be without a sacrifice, after all?
5
My fucking head.
Everything aches like I’ve been mowed down by a bus. Then, reversed over for good measure.
What hell-hole kind of party did I go to last night? I try to swallow, but my tongue feels glued to the roof of my mouth. Water has never been higher on my list of priorities than at this moment.
If only I could open my eyes to make it to my kitchenette. Each eyelash feels glued shut and weighed down by elephants.
That’s when it hits me. Maybe my temporary lack of vision has heightened my other senses, but the glide of these sheets against my skin is different from my own linens. There’s a scent clinging to my nose that I can’t pinpoint. And it’s as if my body can tell there’s an entirely different space surrounding where I’m lying.
The effort it takes to blink my eyes open is extraordinary, and I’m instantly thrown into a stomach-falling-through-the-floor type zone at the sight hazily coming into focus before me. Although it’s darkened in here by the heavy curtains, this is not my place.
This is not my bed.
This is a nightmare resurfacing in my mind’s eye like one of those reverse video clips. One where a glass vase shatters against the floor in slow motion. Only all the scattered shards are knitting themselves back together as the video plays through.
The last thing I remember comes into sight as those thousands of deadly sharp points of glass rearrange themselves into a single object within my mind’s eye.
That asshole drugged me.
Now, I’m wide awake, albeit woozy as all hell.
Every single one of my childhood horrors comes thundering in. Muscle memory of how often I woke up terrified, fearing the worst might happen at any moment, delivered at the foul hands of one of my father’s many friends lurking around Noire House.
I managed to escape before anything as horrific as that ever did happen. But now…
Using my elbows, I propel myself sideways out of the bed and crumple on shaky legs. Everything in my body feels as though it’s made of heavy rubber, and there’s an acidic taste rising in my throat.
My stomach flops in a sickening fashion, and I run my hands over my body. I’m still fully clothed…but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. As much as it sends a wave of anxiety through me, I have to check.
An open doorway stands off to the side of where the bed is oriented, and I stumble my way there. Panic drives me forward without taking a second look at my surroundings. When I reach the relative safety of a bathroom—one that comes with a lock on the inside of the door—I seal myself in.
The sight that greets me is even more terrifying than I imagined. My makeup has been removed, but I’m still wearing the exact outfit I had on when I left my place. My dress looks rumpled. Is that from sleep, or because of another reason?
God, I have no idea how many days ago I was taken. How long have I been out for?
