Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“I won’t cooperate.”
He shrugs. “Pain is a persuasive tutor.” He nods to the goon. “Take her upstairs. Green room.”
The enforcer shoves me down a hall lined with oversized monochrome art—blurred cityscapes, as impersonal as hotel décor. Upstairs, a long corridor ends at a solid door painted sage. He unlocks it, pushes me inside, cuts the zip-ties with a pocketknife, then slams the door.
The room is… beautiful. Sea-glass green walls, whitewashed planks, a four-poster bed dressed in linen, French doors opening onto a Juliet balcony overlooking the lake. The contrast to my panic is sickening.
I remember long summers here at this house, staying in this room. It’s sort of ironic this is the room he chose for me.
I rush the balcony doors, but of course they’re locked and key-bolted. I peer through the glass. There’s no escape. I could smash the glass, but even if I climbed out, the noise would alert them. A single kayak drifts lazily at the dock—like freedom mocking me.
I glance around for weapons. There’s a ceramic lamp, and a curtain rod. No phone, obviously. In the closet there’s nothing but empty hangers. In the bathroom there’s a marble sink, luxe toiletries, and an extravagant claw-foot tub which is wide enough to drown in.
Back in the bedroom, I test the door. Ugh. It’s locked.
I pace, inhaling cedar-clean air that does nothing to calm me. Think. Asher will trace my phone—except it’s probably smashed. Still, he’ll track Wade, track the van. He’ll come. I must buy time.
I tug the bed’s quilted coverlet, yank a seam until the stitching pops. I rip a strip, and wind it over the raw grooves on my wrists. A makeshift bandage. Then I wedge the chair beneath the doorknob; it won’t stop a determined entry, but maybe slows them a few seconds.
By late afternoon light angles gold across the floor. Hunger gnaws; fear gnaws harder. I press my forehead to the cool glass doors, and watch the afternoon waves slap against the shore. Across the lake, the forest stretches for as far as the eye can see. No neighbors. No witnesses.
A soft click sounds. I spin, as my chair clatters.
Wade enters alone, carrying a tray. On it is bottled water, a protein bar, and a single-use camcorder. He eyes the chair, smirks, and then sets the tray on the dresser.
“Hydrate. After sunset, we record the message.”
“I won’t beg for you.” My throat trembles, but my glare stays level.
“You will.” He steps closer. I smell his cologne. It’s some expensive citrusy scent. “Or I’ll let Mikhail practice his surgical skills.” He strokes my cheek with a knuckle, and I flinch. “Think on it.” He backs out, locking the door as he goes.
Tears burn, but I swallow them down. I sip water, though my stomach knots. Then I examine the camcorder—a cheap mini thing. Could be a weapon? Too light. Maybe hide the SD card? I pry open the slot, palm the card, and slide it into my bra. My own act of tiny defiance.
Twilight seeps across the lake. Crickets start their chorus. I haul the mattress off the bed frame. It’s heavy, but my adrenaline helps. There’s steel slats underneath which is loose enough to pry one free. I jimmy at the bracket until a thin bar pops. A weapon. It’s weighty. It’ll do.
The door clicks again. Show time.
I crouch behind the bathroom door. The mattress is askew to hide my absence. Footsteps enter, Wade’s loafers. He curses, shifting the mattress. I slip out, raising the bar.
But Mikhail barges in behind him. It’s two against one.
“Run!” instinct screams, but the balcony’s locked.
Mikhail lunges, and I swing. The metal bar glances off his shoulder and he grunts, grabbing my wrist. Pain bursts white, and the bar drops. Wade yanks my hair, shoving me to the floor. My cheek slams into the hardwood. And I cry out in sheer pain.
“Stupid,” he snarls, his boot pressing into my ribs.
Tears blur my vision, but I grin. “Still not begging.”
He leans close, his breath sour. “Tomorrow you will.” He stands, straightening his cuffs. “Fix the bed,” he tells Mikhail, and then they leave, the click of the door sealing my fate.
I curl around my aching ribs, my laughter shaking me but it keeps despair at bay. Because every second I antagonize him buys time. And somewhere out there Asher is cutting through forest and rage to find me. I just have to hold on.
I crawl to the window, the moon rising silver over the lake. I whisper into the glass like it’s a radio, a lifeline, a prayer: “I’m still here.”
25
Asher
The conference room I’ve commandeered at Magnolia Ridge Resort is buzzing with anxious hotel staff, local law enforcement, and resort security—all here on my orders, all mobilized to locate Charlotte and Wade Sinclair. It’s controlled chaos, voices crackling over radios, fingers flying over keyboards as Dean coordinates intel remotely. Yet every second that ticks by feels too long.