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1
BLUE
“Looks like we’ll get that chance to be together after all. And I owe you, you little bitch.”
No.
It can’t be him. I saw him at the compound. Did he get out before we did, while Isabelle and I were in the bathroom? It’s not possible. He was guarding the Councilors. He couldn’t just leave, could he?
The car swerves and I’m thrown backward then propelled in the opposite direction. I slam against the trunk wall, the blow to my head making my ears ring, making stars dance before my eyes. It takes all I have to keep them open.
Now isn’t the time to puzzle this out. To try to make sense of how he got to me. I need to think. I need to keep my eyes open and not pass out. I need to find an escape.
I take mental inventory. My body aches. I was out of my seatbelt when the car collided with ours. Was it him? What was his name? Wyatt Hoxton? Was it him who hit us? Had he recognized me and followed us out?
Where was Zeke? Jericho went back to get him. We should have been safe with Dex.
I’m not sure if my eyes are open or closed. It’s pitch black in the trunk. He’s moving at a fast speed and when he takes a turn, I go rolling again, this time my face colliding with something hard. I black out. I only know because when I manage to open my eyes again, the car is slowing to a stop. I hear a beep, and then we’re moving again.
Gravel crunches under the tires. How long have we been driving? How long have I been passed out? After what feels like an eternity, the car comes to a stop and the driver kills the engine. I’m wide awake now, my heart racing. The car door opens, slams shut. I smell cigarette smoke. I feel around myself for a weapon, something to have ready when he pops the trunk open. But there’s nothing. I reach for a shoe. Those heels have to be good for something. I can stab him in the eye, disorient him and run. One of my feet is bare. I must have lost a shoe somewhere. But the other one is still on, and I pull it off, grip it in my hand.
I hear the popping sound of the trunk. My heart races as light appears in a thin line, then widens as he opens the trunk. I see Wyatt Hoxton’s face. His leering grin. It sends a familiar chill through me, because that I remember, but it’s worse now with those scars that run from the corners of his mouth to his ears making an eerie, inhuman grin.
He reaches in and I smell the cigarette he just smoked. Before he grabs hold of me, I draw my arm back and swing, aiming the heel of my shoe at his eye. He’s surprised, clearly, but he’s fast. And fuck he’s strong. He catches my wrist and slams it against the side of the car. I cry out with the pain as the shoe goes flying from my hand.
“I should stab you in the eye, you little bitch,” he says, both hands on me now as he hauls me out.
“No!” I scratch at him, my fingernails claws.
He shakes me so hard my brain rattles against my skull. “You want rough, little girl? You’ll get rough. Don’t push me.”
I fight him, managing to drag my nails down the side of his face. He stops and the sound he makes more animal than human. I realize my mistake when he grips my hair in his giant fist and drags me out by my hair, throwing me onto the gravel drive. I land on all fours, stones digging into my palms and knees. I look back, see the blood on his cheek. I try to crawl away, but he reaches me and with a swift kick to my stomach, sends me down.
He crouches as I hug my arms around my middle.
“I said don’t fucking push me.”
He once again grips my hair and I scream for help when he hauls me up by it. I can barely straighten as he shoves me forward, dropping me with such force the wind is knocked out of me when I hit the driveway. Tiny, sharp stones cut into every inch of exposed skin, tearing my dress, my flesh, before I’m pulled up again.
“Help me! Someone help!” I cry but he just laughs. He doesn’t attempt to shut me up.
“There’s no one to hear you,” he says and as if to prove it, he makes a sweeping gesture with his arm and he’s not lying. It’s dark, pitch black and all around us is nothing. Absolutely nothing.
A phone rings, startlingly out of place. It’s coming from his pocket. His face darkens. Holding on to me with one hand, he pulls it out, mutters a curse then silences it before returning his full attention to me. He marches me toward a decrepit looking house, the only structure for as far as I can see.
Where the fuck are we? How is anyone going to find me?
Is anyone even looking? Is Zeke? Will he come for me?
But it’s worse than that horrible house, I realize, when, once we reach it, he walks me around the back to another building that wasn’t visible from the other side. This one is newer, still dark, pitch black. It’s a large shed or something. We get to the door where I notice the small keypad. Keeping hold of my hair, he punches in a code. There’s a beep before a click and the door opens.
“In,” he says, and shoves me only releasing me when I’m inside. I stumble into the musty smelling place. He closes the door behind him before switching on a light and I look around the windowless room, take in the ancient looking huge bed against the center of the back wall, the leather cuffs hanging off each of the four wooden posts. The mattress is bare and there’s nothing else. No pillows. No blankets. No one sleeps here.
But this isn’t a place for sleep.
The walls are painted black and against one stands a wooden cross. It has leather restraints at the top and bottom for wrists and ankles. From several large, rusted-looking nails hammered into the walls hang various whips. What the hell, is this some sort of kinky playroom?
I turn to look at my captor, take two steps backward. The floor beneath my feet is dirt. Just dirt. My gaze moves to the rings nailed into the ceiling beams, the restraints hanging from them and when I see his grin and watch him pull on a pair of black leather gloves he takes from his pocket, I think no. No. This isn’t a kinky playroom. It’s a torture-room. Worse.
