Page 98 of Sinful Bride

The first one reaches me before I can finish the question. His hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off my scream. I bite down hard, tasting blood, and he swears but doesn't let go.

"Grab her!" The other two are on me in seconds. Hands on my arms, my waist, dragging me away from the counter. I fight, kicking and thrashing, trying to break free. My heel connects with someone's shin, and he grunts in pain.

"Fucking bitch⁠—"

Something hard hits the side of my head, and stars explode across my vision. My knees buckle, but they don't let me fall. They're dragging me toward the door, toward the service exit I didn't even notice.

This is a kidnapping. The realization cuts through the pain and panic. This was planned. Coordinated. They knew I'd be here.

My father. This is my father's backup plan. I didn’t do it fast enough, and now…

I feel sure of it.

I try to scream again, but the hand over my mouth is too tight. I can't breathe. The sound gets through, but I don’t know if it’s loud enough.

"Move!" They're pulling me through the service door into a narrow hallway that smells like cleaning supplies and old carpet. I dig my heels in, trying to slow them down, but they're too strong.

"Help!" The word comes out for a brief second as I get air, and I shout as loud as I can. "Someone⁠—"

A cloth presses over my nose and mouth with a chemical smell, sharp and sickly sweet. I try to hold my breath and turn my head away, but it's no use.

The world starts to blur. My limbs go heavy. I'm still fighting, trying to break free, but my body won't cooperate.

"Declan—"

His name is the last thing I manage before everything goes dark.

21

DECLAN

The sound cuts through everything—the string quartet playing near the bar, the polite laughter of women in designer gowns, the low murmur of men discussing territory and profit margins. It's a scream, high and sharp and terrified, and it comes from somewhere deeper in the building, away from the ballroom.

I know that voice.

My body moves before my mind catches up. I'm already pushing through the crowd, ignoring the startled looks and the hand that reaches out to stop me, someone trying to ask me a question I don't hear. The scream came from the direction of the restrooms, down a hallway that branches off from the main ballroom. I'm moving fast, my hand already reaching for the gun holstered at my back beneath my tuxedo jacket.

She betrayed me. She stood over me with a loaded gun and almost pulled the trigger. I should let her deal with whatever trouble she's gotten herself into. Should let her family handle it, since she's made it clear where her loyalties lie.

But she's my wife. And despite everything, despite the betrayal and the fact that I can't trust a single word that comes out of her mouth, I can't just walk away.

The hallway is empty when I reach it. I hear voices ahead, muffled and urgent, coming from somewhere past the restrooms. A service exit, maybe. Somewhere the staff uses to move through the building without being seen by guests. I pull my gun and move toward the sound.

The door to the women's restroom is slightly ajar. I push it open with my shoulder, keeping the gun raised, and find it empty. No Elena. No sign of struggle.

The voices are louder now, coming from a service corridor just past the restrooms, through a door marked "Staff Only" in discreet lettering. I move toward it, my heart pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, and push through. The corridor is narrow and utilitarian, with concrete floors, fluorescent lighting, and the smell of cleaning chemicals and old carpet. Three men are dragging Elena toward an exit at the far end. She's limp in their arms, her head lolling forward and her gown trailing on the floor behind her. One of them has a cloth pressed to her face.

They haven't seen me yet. They're focused on getting her through the exit, on moving fast and quietly. They’re professionals. This isn't some opportunistic grab—this is planned.

I don't give them a chance to realize I'm here.

The first man goes down with a bullet through his shoulder. He drops Elena's arm and staggers backward, his hand going to the wound, his mouth opening in a shout that I cut off with a second shot to his chest. He hits the wall and slides down, leaving a smear of blood on the concrete.

The other two react immediately. One of them drops Elena. She crumples to the floor like a broken doll as he reaches for his own gun. The other lunges at me, trying to close the distance before I can fire again.

I sidestep and bring the butt of my gun down hard on the back of his skull. He goes down with a grunt, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud. The third man has his gun out, raising it toward me, and I fire twice. Once in the chest, once in the head. He drops before he can pull the trigger.

The corridor goes silent except for the ringing in my ears and the harsh sound of my own breathing. Three bodies on the floor. Blood pooling on the concrete. Elena is unconscious in the middle of it all, her dress soaked with someone else's blood.