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They didn't answer, just murmured among themselves about ropes and restraints—words that should've caused fear to pool in my stomach but instead sent an unwelcome jolt of heat spiraling through me. Betrayal by my own body—add it to the list of grievances.
As the engine roared to life and we lurched forward, the world outside erupted into chaos. A deafening explosion ripped through the stillness of the Chicago night, the shockwave rattling the vehicle's frame. Shouts pierced the ringing in my ears, confusion palpable even through the thick veil of my own panic.
"Shit, what the hell was that?" one captor yelled, voice tinged with genuine alarm.
"Drive, drive!" another screamed, the professional calm shattered by raw terror.
Bound and blind, I couldn't help the twisted smile that curled my lips. Whatever had happened, it wasn't part of their plan—and seeing these assholes lose their cool? That was the first fucking spark of pleasure I'd felt since this nightmare began.
Looks like Lady Luck might be a vindictive bitch after all.
The world quaked, and with each frantic heartbeat, I strained against my bonds, every fiber of my being screaming for freedom or a fight—anything but this powerless drifting on the tide of their fucked-up scheme.
"Damn it, Celeste, I'm—I'm sorry," the voice cut through the chaos, so familiar yet laced with an emotion I hadn't expected: fear. My stalker, my shadow, the phantom that haunted my nights was unraveling at the seams. "This isn't how it was supposed to go."
I almost laughed—a sharp, hollow sound. Sorry? For what? The stalking, the abduction, or the fact that your perfect plan just got blown to shit? But I bit back the retort; sarcasm was a luxury for those who could see their opponent.
"Sorry doesn't un-kidnap me, you asshole." I spat the words, tasting the bitter tang of helplessness and rage.
"Fuck, she's still conscious. Do it now!" he barked out the command, and I felt the pinch—a betrayal of a different kind, sharp and cold. They were going to drug me, rob me of the scant control I clung to.
"Christ, you're such a cliché," I hissed as the sedative slithered into my veins, my thoughts already blurring at the edges. "Drug the girl, 'cause you can't handle her when she's kicking your ass."
The vehicle swerved, tires screeching a protest that mirrored my own. The drug wound its way through me, a serpent of drowsiness coiling tighter with every heartbeat. I fought it, god damn it, I fought with everything I had left, but like every shitty date I'd ever had, no didn't mean no to these guys.
"Go to hell," I managed, though the words were thick on my tongue, rebellion fading to black.
As consciousness slipped away, I clung to the ember of satisfaction that at least I’d given them hell. And if Lady Luck was listening, she’d know I was due one hell of a payback.
Chapter 20
Nash
The streets of Chicago were a goddamn warzone. Ash and debris danced in the air like the city had thrown up its insides, mocking the clear night sky with its smoky tendrils. I maneuvered the van, a beat-to-shit Ford that had seen better days, through the chaos, my eyes scanning for any signs of danger. The explosion that had leveled Celeste's apartment to rubble was still ringing in my ears, a bitter symphony to the night's madness.
"Careful with the turns, Nash," one of my team grunted from the passenger seat. I shot him a glare hot enough to singe his eyebrows off. Like I needed driving lessons while the world turned upside down.
In the back, Celeste lay unconscious, her body rising and falling with shallow breaths, a burlap sack obscuring her beautiful face. Fuck, she looked like some sick trophy, and the sight sent a strange thrill rocketing through my veins. I hadn't planned on getting stabbed tonight, but the damn vixen had managed to slice me good during the scuffle. And hell, the pain—it sparked something dark within me, something that craved more of her wild fight.
I pressed a bloody hand against my side, feeling the sticky warmth seep between my fingers. It was a nice wound, clean and deep. She'd gotten me real good. A laugh, harsh and unexpected, bubbled up from my chest. Who knew that getting knifed by a furious artist would get my blood pumping in all the right ways?
"Nash, you're bleeding all over the fucking place," my teammate muttered, eyeing the bloodstain spreading across my shirt.
"Adds character," I shot back, the twisted grin not leaving my face.
Every fiber of my being screamed that this was wrong, that Celeste should've been safe, painting in her apartment—not passed out in the back of a van with a madman who got off on her attempts to gut him like a fish. But the city was no longer safe for her, not with the shadows creeping closer, hungry for her light.
Kidnapping her was the only way. I repeated in my head, a mantra to soothe the beast clawing at my conscience. Yeah, it was fucked up, but if anyone else had gotten their hands on her...
"Make sure she's breathing," I snapped without looking back, focusing on the road ahead. "And for fuck's sake, if she wakes up, don't let her see your ugly mugs first."
We drove in silence, save for the occasional sound of crumbling buildings and distant sirens. My thoughts were a whirlwind of violence and desire, an intoxicating mix that made it hard to focus on anything but the woman lying just out of reach.
"Almost there," I murmured as the familiar gates of my mansion loomed into view. Home sweet hell. The van skidded to a stop, and I was out the door before the engine died, my wounds forgotten in the urgency of the moment.
"Open the fucking gates," I growled into the comm, my voice echoing through the van. The iron bars parted like the Red Sea, granting access to my dark haven. I parked with a screech, the gravel beneath the tires spitting out my frustration.
"Boss," started my assistant, stepping out from the shadows, his face a mask of concern. "Let me take her inside. You need to?—"
