Page 7 of Boneyard HEA

Puzzled, I search for the dog, half expecting her to be lying on the floor space surrounded by the sofas. But no. No dog. Only a red-and-white rug. Lucy will drool on that and make short work of the white, which only makes me wish I had a pet even more than usual. Only the rich bother with white rugs.

I stop dead and frown when Aaron sits on the opposite sofa. He then stretches forward to pat the seat of the wooden chair facing him.

“Sit down, Juniper. We have things to discuss.”

“What? Your dog? What is this?”

The chair he patted looks supremely antique and uncomfortable.

I hear a soft noise behind me. Suspicious, I’m turning, swinging to check on the stranger, since who else would that be, when a hard arm locks about the front of my neck at the same time as someone grabs my left wrist and twists it up behind my back—painfully so.

“What the—” I choke out as Aaron rises. He forces up my chin, then sticks a wide piece of tape over my mouth.

When I kick at him, I’m jerked backward then jammed over the arm of the nearest sofa. Loxland leans down, and the asshole supreme’s face comes into view to my right. Though I’m struggling, the stranger’s weight has me squashed to the armrest almost immovably. I snort out my anger and glare from where I’m pinned with the side of my face jammed on the cushions.

“She can breathe.” He eyes me a second longer. “Fasten her to the chair, please. We aren’t going to hurt you, Juniper. Make sure that’s true, Tomás.” The man holding me, Tomás, grunts. I hope that is a yes.

My hands are cuffed behind me while I’m still bent forward then I’m dragged to the chair.

“Mmmph!” If that doesn’t help me, so be it. The following “Mmummfff?!” translates as what the fuck, though I doubt they got that either.

My neck is caught loosely in a loop of leather belt and tied somehow at the back of the chair—the buckle digs into my nape—and my ankles are zip tied to the front chair legs. I’m breathing so hard that snot is ready to dribble out any second. I need to breathe, though, and I close my eyes, trying to act less overwhelmed, trying to calm myself. I need to breathe.

When I open my eyes again, winding down some more, because there is nowhere to go, the asshole stares at me from the opposite armchair. His blond hair flops over his eyes as he leans forward, with his long-fingered hands clasped between his knees.

What are they planning to do with me? That question is on a loop.

“Let me stress that I won’t do anything to you that you haven’t agreed to.” Now he smiles. Fuck him. “I know you murdered Nathan, and I plan to help you if you let me.”

Oh crap, oh crap. He knows? How? As if him knowing that makes this worse.

I keep glaring. Help me? Sure you are. I have no idea where this is going, but it cannot be good.

I’m sorry, Riley. I tried.

“You cannot call to anyone. Screaming will get you nowhere. This house has no neighbors close enough, and I’ve tested it for soundproofing. So.” He claps his hands. “We are going to remove the tape from your mouth. If you scream, I’ll have it replaced with a smaller gag. Got that?” He waits.

Reluctantly, I nod.

“Good. Tomás?”

The man reaches around me and slowly peels away the tape. It stings but I only lick my lips and inhale, exhale, and stare back at Loxland.

“You still don’t remember me? Ten years ago I was a teacher.”

Loxland… Mr. Loxland. Oh my god. Him? I can feel my eyes wedging open for far too long. “You!”

“Yes. Me. So now we are even. I know you murdered a man, and you remember me.”

I shrug. “So? You made a mistake. If I report you as assaulting me and this.” I lift a shoulder. The cuffs on my wrists, where they are stuck behind my back, dig into my skin. “And him too. You both want that on your record?”

He only raises his eyebrows. Somehow, I feel a threat emanating from the stranger at that suggestion of mine. It’s impossible to feel threats… Isn’t it?

No one is talking. I press my lips together.

We both know Loxland can deny it, or say he had to do this because I was violent. That’s assuming he lets me go. Have to admit, if I ever confront a murderer, I would be tempted to tie them up before I chat to them. ’Cause, well, they’re dangerous. Me, Danger Woman.

And he might not, ever, let me go. How does he know what I did?