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Sane or not, that’s how I think of her—as mine.
And no one takes what’s mine without paying the price.
And if they’ve hurt her?
They’ll pay in blood.
Chapter 13
Willow
One minute, I’m running down the stairs to the lower lobby, determined to get to the orchestra section and help the injured.
The next, thick arms are around me, a sweaty hand is over my mouth, and I’m being hauled into a tiny room that smells of sour beer and hot pretzels.
I thrash against my attacker, wide eyes scanning the dimly lit space, trying to find something I can use as a weapon. I spot an empty vodka bottle on a counter—I must be in a prep room by the lower lobby’s bar—and determine to get my fingers wrapped around it at the first opportunity.
In the meantime, I intend to scream as loud as possible.
I cry out against the hand, but it’s so large it almost completely muffles the sound. Anyone beyond this room would be hard-pressed to hear me even if it was quiet out there.
And it’s not.
People are shouting, crying, and running for cover, focused on getting themselves and the people they love to safety, not saving a woman on the verge of being kidnapped.
That’s what this is.
Pax or Victor must have sent this man, even though he doesn’t smell like a wolf.
It’s the only thing that makes sense.
Which means, if Sweaty Hand Dude succeeds in getting me out of the North Star tower, I’m a dead woman. And not just dead, but slowly and miserably dead. The Alphas will torture me to death. Publicly. An example to anyone else foolish enough to think they can take their fate into their own hands.
Adrenaline dumping into my blood stream, I curl my right leg into my chest and shoot it backward into my attacker’s knee. He bends with a groan and his hands slips from my mouth.
A beat later, I’m out of his arms with my fingers around the vodka bottle.
I spin, bringing it down as hard and fast as I can on his head—once, twice.
It’s classy vodka, the kind that comes in thick, heavy glass. It doesn’t shatter until the third blow.
Thankfully, the giant man falls to his hands and knees a second later, groaning and weaving back and forth.
I don’t stay to see if he’s going to pass our or not. I shove my hands against the bar on the door in front of me and explode out into the chaos.
People are still running for cover, moving swiftly past me toward the multiple sets of doors on the other side of the main lobby.
Heart slamming, I search the faces racing toward me for someone who looks like they’re in charge—an enforcement officer or even one of the theater staff who might know where we can hide to call for backup. But these people are all theatergoers like me. And many of them are elderly or carrying children in their arms.
I can’t ask them to stop and help, not when Sweaty Palms could be up and out of that room at any moment.
As if summoned by my dread-filled thoughts, the door to the food prep room opens and Sweaty staggers out, blood dripping from a cut on his temple down the side of his cheek.
A woman running past almost collides with him, but veers away at the last moment, crying out in surprise as she gets a better look at his face.
“Call for help!” I shout at her as she passes me. “He’s with the people who planted the bomb.”
I don’t know that for sure—I’ve never seen this guy in my life and have no idea if he’s into explosives—but odds are that the bombing and my kidnapping are connected.
