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Eden
I curled onto my side, clinging to unconsciousness like a security blanket.
I hurt. My head. My hip from the cold, hard surface beneath me.
My eyes were crusted with sleep, my tongue thick and swollen.
I swallowed and choked on my lack of spit, which brought me fully awake.
My eyelids popped open.
The baby. Jesus, the baby.
They’d kidnapped me. Knocked me out with some unknown drug. Had they hurt the baby?
Tears trickled from my eyes. I spread my fingers over my abdomen. No pain or cramping. That was good, right?
Please, please let him be okay.
I turned my attention to my surroundings. Pitch-black and musty. Hard-packed dirt, not concrete.
I waited for my eyes to adjust but it remained dark. So, a basement or cellar…or a crypt.
The fine hairs on my arms stood on end. Had they left me here to die?
Deep breaths.
Deep. Breaths.
I pushed myself to sitting with my palms against the cool, gritty surface. I wasn’t tied up, and I was still dressed in the clothes I’d worn to my parents’ house. They hadn’t molested me. Another good thing.
But who…? And why…?
My mind supplied the answer.
“Talon will think you ran away.”
A chill crawled up my spine. My nape tightened.
This wasn’t about me. This was about Talon.
A few meters away from me, the air seemed to shift. I froze, concentrating on the spot.
The seconds ticked by. Then a glowing face appeared. A vampire, a male one. It was too dark to see anything but his face and throat, but he appeared to be seated on something because his face hovered three to four feet above the ground.
Lean, angular face. Prominent cheekbones. Short dark hair. And dressed in a suit from what I could see of his neck, which sported a buttoned-up collar and the knot of a necktie.
Against his paper-pale skin, his lips appeared to have been drawn on with black ink, his eyes dark holes like a nightmare come to life.
The inked-on mouth moved. “You’re awake.”
I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to curl up and pretend I was still asleep. But that wasn’t an option, so I drew my legs in, knees bent, feet on the dirt floor and wrapped my arms around my bent knees, grateful for the warmth of the puffer jacket.
I didn’t try and stand up. That seemed too chancy on my jelly legs.
Rubbing the crust from my eyes, I croaked, “Who are you?”
“You can call me M’sieur.” A French accent, but not French Canadian like the dhampir in the SUV. This man sounded colder, more cultured.
