Page 63 of Bitter Truths

Owen emerges from behind a pillar, keys in hand, moving like he has all the time in the world. He stares at me like he has the right to.

“Hello, Princess,” he says calmly, like we’re meeting for coffee instead of him kidnapping me. “You missed our appointment.”

“Missed it?” I spit, struggling against his hold. “I never considered it, you pretentious assholes.”

Tristan moves behind me while I’m focused on Owen. I feel his presence a split second before his arms wrap around me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides.

I throw my head back, trying to crack his nose with the back of my skull. He moves just enough that I only catch his chin, but it’s enough to make him grunt.

“Bianca, stop fighting,” he says, his voice maddeningly level. “You’re making this unnecessarily difficult.”

I twist in his grip and manage to get enough leverage to punch Owen in the jaw. The impact sends pain shooting up my arm, but the satisfaction of seeing his head snap back makes it worth it.

Owen laughs. “Good form, Princess. But I could teach you better technique.”

“Stop calling me that, fuckface!” I drive my knee toward his injured thigh, trying to reopen the wound from my makeshift shiv. He dodges but not entirely—I catch him on the outer edge, making him hiss.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Tristan murmurs against my ear, his breath warm on my neck. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“No,” I bite down on his forearm where it crosses in front of me. Hard. He makes a sharp sound but doesn’t let go, even when I taste copper. “I’m going to hurt you.”

“Persistent little thing,” he says, and I can hear the strain now. Good, at least I am making them work for it.

I wrench one arm free and grab for the most sensitive target I can reach, twisting his nipple through his shirt as hard as I can manage.

Tristan’s composure cracks. “Fucking hell⁠—”

His grip loosens just enough for me to break away. I sprint toward the garage exit, but Owen intercepts me, catching me around the waist and lifting me off my feet.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

I claw at his arms, leaving bloody trails, and kick backward, trying to connect with anything vulnerable. One foot catches him in the shin hard enough to make him stumble.

“I’ve missed her,” Owen tells Tristan, huffing out a laugh despite the havoc I’ve wreaked on both of them.

“Help me get her in the back,” Tristan replies. He sounds breathless, maybe even aroused.

Disgusting.

They work together to drag me toward a black SUV. I fight every step, using every dirty trick I learned in five years of survival training: elbow strikes, knee kicks, trying to gouge eyes or crush throats.

“Easy,” Owen says when I nearly connect with his windpipe. “We’re not trying to hurt you.”

“Bullshit!” I hiss.

“We simply want a conversation with you,” Tristan says, pinning my arms again. “One you refused to have voluntarily.”

“So you kidnap me?” My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. “Are you fucking insane?”

“Could be,” Owen admits with a deranged-looking smile, blood from various wounds staining his clothes. “Disappearing like that might drive a man out of his mind.”

Tristan snorts.

He opens the door and slides into the backseat first, then pulls me in after him. Before I can make another break for it, Owen’s in the driver’s seat, and we’re moving.

Tristan maneuvers me against his chest, his legs wrapping around mine to keep me from thrashing. He has one arm holding me to pin me, and I can feel his heartbeat against my spine, his breath in my hair. I’m fighting for my life not to relax into it.

No scent. Even this close, and pressed against him, I can’t smell a damn thing. Whatever blockers they’re using are strong. It would be useful to know what kind for the refuge. Can never be too safe about leaving scent breadcrumbs.