I might burn them all the second I get home, because they’re an easy-access item of clothing and I’m desperately trying not to think about what is going to happen to me here.
Those same rough hands pull me out of the trunk, tugging at the bag to adjust it and ensure it’s still in place and blocking out all light. It also muffles sound fairly well but there’s an echo, so we’re obviously walking through a parking garage. It’s difficult to concentrate on the little details with how raw my entire brain feels thanks to my chloroform nap, but I push myself to start cataloging everything.
This is how I’m going to get out of here.
I don’t need a white knight, I need to pay attention because Aodhan isn’t going to come storming in after me this time. He won’t even know I’m gone, I’d told him not to expect me home and to stay at the compound for a few days.
Will I still be alive in a few days? Aodhan’s words ring in my mind, as clear to me now as when he spoke them to me just hours ago.
If I lose you, I’m going the same way as Jack, I swear to fucking God.
Absolutely not, I’m going to survive this and go home to him. I will not be the victim this time around; I’m so fucking sick of being the target and the easy pickings for these people.
We pause for a minute, the hand around my arm tightening and then an elevator bell rings. Hotel or an apartment complex, my guess is the latter. The man, definitely a man from the feel of his walking and the size of his hand, tugs me into the elevator. I wiggle my hands again but the bindings barely have any give in them. My hands feel a little numb, like the circulation to them has been cut for too long and then I have to push down another wave of panic.
What if I have permanent damage?
Stop it, Beaumont, focus.
The elevator bell chimes again and out we step, my feet dragging but not doing much to slow us down with his rough treatment of me. There’s not much else to go on. We only walk for another seven seconds before he stops and pulls out keys, the jingling sound of them unmistakable. Then a door unlocks and we’re walking again.
The room we walk into is too warm. There’s either no thermostat or this man is cold-blooded, because even in the skirt, I’m starting to sweat almost instantly. He drags me along and then stops, jerking me around and shoving me back until I stumble away from him awkwardly.
He does something to the ties around my wrists and they loosen, not falling away but I feel a glimmer of hope.
Then there’s a weird sliding noise around me, a loud click, and then nothing.
Nothing.
You forget how much sound is really in a quiet room until it all just disappears, and the only sound I can hear now is the thumping of my own heart as it beats an erratic tune in my chest. It’s as if I stepped into a freaking vacuum. The sweating gets worse and I tug at my restraints, surprised when they fall away from me.
I scrabble at the bag, tugging it off and ripping at the gag.
My eyes start streaming at the bright light and I blink rapidly, my arms coming in front of my body like I’ll have any chance to defend myself right now.
Glass.
I’m surrounded by glass.
There’s a buzzing sound and then a voice comes through a speaker, though I can’t see where it is. “You really do look like a little birdie in there.”
I rub at my eyes again, cursing under my breath as I try to find the man, but there’s nothing but an empty apartment in front of me.
Little birdie.
Jesus H. Christ.
“Interesting woman, Amanda Donnelley. She can find anything a man would ever want. She was friends with my father; they both enjoyed curating collections.”
Fuck.
Fuck, that’s where the photos came from. I stare back out at the bare walls and carpets, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
“When she hired me to follow you… well, I recognized you. My father once tried to add you to his collection. Such an exquisite example of Russian-American bloodlines. Did you know that? If you trace the Beaumonts back far enough you hit royalty. That can be problematic, what with the many diseases and defects, but you’ve been bred beautifully.