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In an instant, I go hot and cold all over. My mind races and I lift my head, hoping to see what we are approaching. The man who’s holding me is blocking most of my view and if I wriggle too much, he’ll know that I’m awake. I can’t hear over the surge of blood pounding in my temples. Around the man’s thick black form, I can just make out an airplane hangar.
My thoughts run rampant, my mind flooded with fear. I know I have to get away. There is no way I can just let this stranger carry me straight to my ex-boyfriend-turned-enemy.
Planning seems important but my mind can’t hold onto any kind of scheme for more than a couple of seconds. So I do the only thing that makes sense inside my snarled tangle of a brain.
All at once, without warning, I stiffen my muscles and throw myself to the side. The stranger who is holding me fumbles and stops as I slide off toward the ground.
But in my drug-addled state, I don’t prepare for what comes next. Namely that I will crash to the ground, my knees and elbows taking the brunt of my fall to the pavement. I feel a sharp, burning pain ranting from my knees on impact.
For a split second, I know a note of sheer agony.
As I land with a thud, I tense up my body to begin scrambling away. But my bound wrists and ankles stop me from moving with any kind of speed.
In less than five seconds, the man who carried me turns around, growls down at me, and grabs me by the back of my hair. “Quit wasting my time.”
Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I scramble on my hands and knees, desperate to flee. But the man wrenches my hair painfully, pulling me back toward him. My eyes water and my vision blurs; the man picks me up again, wrapping a thick arm around my waist and forcing me toward the hangar.
My blood curdles as I realize that Constantine is standing right there, not two hundred feet away. He leans against the doorway of the hangar, a dirty little smirk on his lips. His blonde hair is slicked back from his face and he’s wearing what I think of as his uniform: a white button up, dark jeans, and those same damned red alligator skinned boots. He’s a pretty boy, cocky about his good looks, and his self-assuredness practically radiates off him.
I struggle and fight against the man holding me, scratching and kicking. But the whole time, I can’t take my eyes off of Constantine. My hand tingles painfully, reminding me of the last time I turned my back on him.
Even as his goon hauls me toward him, I’ve learned better than to look away. It’s only half a minute before the man dumps me unceremoniously in a pile mere feet from Constantine.
I look up at him, shaking, trying to shrink back. All I can see when I look at Constantine is the slowly-spreading pool of my friend’s blood, being washed away by the lapping waves.
His smirk deepens. He steps forward, strutting toward me, a toothpick clenched in his teeth.
“Persephone,” Constantine declares softly, spreading his hands out in the air before him. “I’ve been looking for you, baby girl.”
I shake my head, the motion jerky, almost involuntary. There isn’t anything for me to say. My whole body trembles violently when he gets close enough to reach out, grabbing my chin.
“Let’s have a look at you.” His fingers grip my face hard enough when he pulls at me that I’m sure that there will be bruises. He gives my face a shake. “Look at me!”
I do, my eyes wide, my nostrils flared. I stare into his handsome, tanned face and his pretty brown eyes. There is a cunningness and a malevolence to his expression that makes a shudder ripple down my back.
He sneers. “I heard the craziest rumor. You won’t believe it.” He crouches down so he’s closer to me, but he never eases his grip on my chin. “I heard that you had gotten a little of that… what’s it called? Stockholm syndrome?” He glances behind himself, but there is no one there. When he turns back to me, he gives me a conspiratorial wink. “You know what that means, don’t you baby girl? It means you have been moaning and spreading your legs for that bastard. And you let him put a baby in you.”
I tear up when his fingers dig into my face like talons. Drawing in a breath, I let out a squeak of pain. Constantine releases my face, but I don’t even have the time to feel relief. He grabs my throat with one hand, looking me in the eyes and clenching his teeth.
He squeezes his fist hard, and my bound hands come up, scrabbling at his wrist.
“Constantine—" I choke out.
He gives me a handshake. “Shut the fuck up. You’re damaged goods. You know that? And I’m not going to fall for your shit this time around. You’re going to be still and quiet, or I’ll turn you out and make you a whore faster than you can say I’m sorry.”
His fingers grip my trachea and for a second, I think he might cut off my air right here and now. I close my eyes as tears escape down my face, trickling down my face freely.
Just when I see little red spots dance across my field of vision, Constantine lets go and steps back. I am not ready to support my weight and so I fall onto my hands again, gasping for breath.
Constantine tilts his head to the side, pursing his lips. “ Get on the fuckin’ plane.”
With that announcement, he turns and struts toward the waiting plane. I stay put, dragging in breaths, watching him as he strides up the set of stairs and disappears into the small private plane.
Behind me, my captor has returned. “Get the fuck up,” he orders. “We have a long flight to Gulf Shores.”
His words rain down on me like physical blows. I rear my head back, as if I can somehow escape their meaning.
I haven’t seen the town of Gulf Shores since a jogger found me there on the beach, bleeding and half-dead. Constantine left me there in the sand to die and walked away scot free.
