Where would he take her?
57
IVY
The first thing I notice when I wake up is that I can’t see. My mind spins, frantically searching for clues about what happened to me.
I try to raise my hand to my face, but it won’t move.
I blow out a panicked breath and realize I’m blindfolded with something that smells old and dusty.
My wrists are bound behind me, the ties biting just enough to be uncomfortable. My ankles are secured, and when I squirm, I hear the squeak of the rickety chair.
This tells me two things immediately: one, this was planned. And two, I’m not getting out of it by accident.
Fantastic.
I test the chair anyway, shifting my weight, rocking hard.
Nothing.
My heart kicks up a notch, and for half a second, panic claws at my throat, sharp and insistent.
Breathe.
I force the air in through my nose, out through my mouth. Slow. Measured.
I will not let fear take the wheel.
Blindfolded means I don’t know where I am. Which means I can’t anchor myself to anything familiar. No windows. No corners. No exits.
“Ah. You’re awake,” a male voice says from somewhere to my left.
His voice is calm.
That’s worse than yelling.
“I was enjoying the ambiance,” I say. “But sure. Let’s chat.”
The silence stretches.
Then I hear him move—slow steps circling me. Testing me.
“You’re not as afraid as you should be,” he says.
I tilt my head toward the sound. “Give it time. First impressions aren’t everything.”
I feel him stop.
Good. If he’s listening, I’m winning a little.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “You’re the asshole who thought kidnapping me was a good idea.”
He chuckles. “Clever,” he murmurs. “Still joking.”
“Still breathing,” I correct. “And still not impressed.”
