Page 21

A rich blend of tobacco, warm spices, and aged liquor hit my nostrils and the hair rose on my arms—the cologne Manic wore. Yes, I was definitely in his penthouse. It was utterly silent, save for my frantic breaths.

I looked left, then right.

For a moment, I hesitated leaving my room and wondered if this was a game to him. He’d unlocked my door, and yet, he wasn’t here.

Did he assume I wouldn’t run? Or maybe there would be no possibility of escaping, which was why he’d unlocked it in the first place. The thought of that alone sent a chill up my spine.

Fuck it.

I stepped out, leaving my door ajar and going right, which only led me further into the darkened hallway. Two more open doors appeared, sending golden streaks of sunrise spilling over the marble. It shimmered softly, as if it were flecked with tiny pieces of gold.

I held my breath and looked inside them, letting out a relieved exhale at the sight of empty rooms. They looked very similar to the one I was in. But no Manic.

That could either be a good thing, or terrifyingly bad thing.

A few more steps and another door appeared on my left, but this one was made of frosted glass with a matte black handle. I eased it open only to be met with the scent of leather, rubber, and polished steel as soon as the air hit me. The lights automatically flicked on, revealing a home gym. Mirrors lined each wall with TV’s hanging in the corners.

I shut the door and looked around, realizing this hall was a dead end. The silence was deafening, and unfortunately for me, there was nowhere else to go but where I came from. My bedroom came up on my left, but I kept walking, my feet gliding effortlessly past with hardly a sound.

I stopped at the end of the hallway, looking at what appeared to be an elaborate living room with a wall made of glass—a balcony. It was clear that it overlooked Vancouver as buildings rose in the distance. Good, I was still in the city.

Then I froze.

Hushed voices echoed off the walls, but⁠—

No, it was music. Soft rock whispered around the corner, as if it were only on to break the silence. I jumped at the sound of a coffee grinder, and my pulse skyrocketed. Bile quickly rose in my throat, and I forced myself to swallow, slamming my eyes shut. I leaned my head against the wall and took a few long breaths.

Vomiting out of pure terror would be embarrassing. Or perhaps mildly amusing if I managed to do it all over his fancy marble floor. Though I couldn’t imagine Manic cleaning it. He’d probably shoot me for doing it, too, and knowing that curdled my⁠—

“Are you going to join me?” Manic called out.

My eyes flew open.

Now, suddenly, I was at war with my thoughts. Should I run and search for an exit? Or should I confront him? How far would I get before he captured me again? Perhaps long enough to call someone if I could manage it.

With trembling hands and a deep, calming breath, I stepped out from the hallway and faced what awaited me.

Manic stood shirtless at the counter in a large kitchen, pressing a small amount of ground espresso into a portafilter. Mixing with my fear was a shocking amount of admiration as his tattooed forearms feathered with the movement, his veins bulging.

Admiration for my kidnapper.

I scowled and fisted my hands as the urge to stab him surfaced. Just because he was pretty, didn’t make him any less dangerous. In fact, that probably made him that much worse. But the nonchalant demeanor he had pissed me off, almost as if he were sweeping aside what had happened just last night.

My chest grew hot, and for a moment, I saw nothing but darkness clouding my vision. This part of myself frightened me, sometimes. The part where I couldn’t control my anger if it rose too high, often leading to embarrassing outbursts.

Manic raised his eyes as he secured the portafilter in the espresso machine, pressed the button, then wiped his hands on a rag. “You’re angry.”

My mouth fell open, as I was now staring at the cocky Mortaine I’d known for the last several years. Was he always like this—absolutely psychotic? And if so, how did I miss it?

“Are you fucking serious? You kidnapped me,” I hissed. “What am I doing here, Manic? Take me home, and give me my phone back.”

He laughed, throaty and low, and braced his hands against the counter. Amusement danced in his expression. “You’re not going home. I told you that last night. Why are you confused?”

“Confused?” I spat, stepping forward. “You drugged me⁠—”

“Because you would have fought me. I did it for your safety. You needed to be here,” he stated.

I blinked. Safety? What did that mean?