Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,21

my optimism. Otherwise I’ll be enveloped by fear.

Once I’m down the stairs, I look for the front door, but I’m lost in a rabbit warren of rooms. Old architects didn’t care for open floor-plans. I’m wandering through libraries and sitting rooms and billiard rooms, and who knows what else. Several times I bump into an end table or the back of a couch, and I almost knock over a standing lamp, barely catching its pole before it hits the ground.

With every minute that passes my nerves become increasingly frayed. What the hell is this place, and why am I here?

At last I catch a glimpse of the same cool, pale outdoor light I saw from my window. Moon or stars. I hurry in that direction, through a large glass conservatory packed with tropical plants. The thick foliage hangs down from the ceiling. The pots are so tightly clustered that I have to push my way through the leaves, feeling like I’m already outside.

I’ve almost reached the back door when a voice says, “Finally awake.”

I stop dead in my tracks.

I can see the glass door in front of me. If I run, I could probably get there before this person can grab me.

However, I’m at the back of the house. I’d only be running into a yard—if the door is unlocked at all.

So instead, I slowly turn around to face my captor.

I’m so dazed and terrified that I almost expect to see fangs and claws. A literal monster.

Instead, I see a man sitting on a bench. He’s slim, pale, and casually dressed. His hair is so blond it’s almost white, on the long side and swept back from his face. His sharp features only appear more so in this light—high cheekbones, razor-fine jaw, dark shadows under his eyes. Beneath his black t-shirt I see full sleeves of tattoos on both arms, all the way down to the backs of his hands, and then rising partway up his neck. His glittering eyes look like two shards of shattered glass.

I recognize him at once.

It’s the man from the nightclub. The one who was staring at me.

“Who are you?” I demand.

“Who do you think I am?” he replies.

“I have no idea,” I say.

He sighs and stands up from the bench. Involuntarily, I take a step backward.

He’s taller than I expected. He may be lean, but his shoulders are broad, and he moves with a kind of ease that I recognize. This is a person in control of their body. Someone who can move quickly and without hesitation.

“I’m disappointed in you, Nessa,” he says. His voice is low and clear and carefully enunciated. It has a hint of an accent that I can’t quite place. “I knew you were sheltered. But I didn’t think you were stupid.”

His insult cuts me like a lash. Maybe it’s the expression on his face, his lip curled up in revulsion. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m already keyed up tight with terror.

I don’t usually have a temper. Actually, I can be a bit of a pushover.

My brain decides that now is the moment to finally get snippy. Right when it could get me killed.

“I’m sorry,” I say angrily. “Am I not meeting your expectations as a hostage? Please, enlighten me as to how perceptive you’d be if somebody drugged you and plopped you down in the middle of some creepy haunted mansion?”

As soon as I say it, I regret it. Because he takes another step toward me, his eyes ferocious and cold, and his shoulders rigid with anger.

“Well,” he hisses softly, “I’d probably be smart enough not to antagonize my captor.”

I can feel my legs shaking beneath me. I take another step back, until I feel the cool glass door against my back. My hand gropes blindly for the doorknob.

“Come on now, Nessa,” he says, his eyes boring down into mine as he draws closer. “You can’t be completely ignorant of what goes on in your family?”

He knows my name. He sent the man with the black hair to kidnap me—which means that guy works for him, as a soldier. And there’s a hint of an accent to his speech. Subtle, and unusual—nothing I recognize, like French or German. It could be Eastern European. He has that look—the high cheekbones, the fair skin and hair. Russian? No . . .

Four months ago, my family had a run-in with a Polish gangster. Someone called the Butcher. Nobody told me about it, of course. Aida mentioned it later, in passing.