Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
We emerge into a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of cleaning supplies and cigarette smoke. At the end, an unmarked door stands ajar, and outside it, I spot the faint glow of streetlights. This must be a side exit from the club—some staff or VIP entrance. My heart gallops as I twist my head around, desperate for any sign of Lincoln. But there’s no one else here.
Fear galvanizes me, and I kick out, hoping to catch someone’s shin, but one of Morris’s men just snarls and hoists me higher by my arm. Tears of frustration prick my eyes at the helplessness, my shoulder screaming in protest. “Stop!” I choke out. “You have no idea what—”
Morris waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, we know plenty,” he says, voice cold. “You and your big hero. Trying to worm your way into my circle. Tut-tut.”
Vera’s laughter rings behind us. I angle a glance back, fury and shame warring in my chest. My mind swims with images of Lincoln—where is he? He’ll realize I’m gone, but will it be too late?
A van sits idling at the curb, its back doors wide open, and my heart wrenches at the sight. Everything about this scenario screams danger. The strong grip on my arm forces me forward. I dig my heels in, ignoring the stabs of pain as my shoes scrape the pavement, but the men outmatch me effortlessly.
In a desperate move, I slam my free elbow back, connecting with someone’s ribs. A grunt of pain, but it’s not enough. The second guard curses, his hold tightening until tears blur my vision. “Lincoln!” I scream again, voice breaking with fear. It echoes uselessly off the alley walls.
They shove me into the van, my knees hitting the hard floor. Morris, Vera, and Trey stand watch as the two men climb in after me. One grips a roll of duct tape. My chest constricts.
Morris leans on the side of the door, meeting my gaze with a leisurely smirk. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he purrs. “We’re not done with you yet. But you might not enjoy meeting your… admirer.”
With that, he nods to the bodyguards. Before I can fight again, strong hands force me down, pinning my arms. Tape screeches as it’s ripped from the roll, and the next thing I know, my wrists are bound, the sticky mess cutting into my skin. I thrash, but they’re too strong. My vision tunnels with sheer terror.
Vera’s figure looms in the doorway, half-lit by the van’s dome light. She gives me a mocking wave. “Bye, Isabel,” she chirps. “I had fun meeting and playing with you.”
I want to hurl insults, to scream that Lincoln will tear this place apart to find me, but all that comes out is a strangled sob. The doors slam shut, darkness enveloping me. The engine roars, lurching the van forward, and my stomach pitches with the movement. My pulse pounds in my ears, and my only solace is the certainty that Lincoln will come for me.
He has to. Because right now, I have no one else.
I squeeze my eyes shut, every muscle rigid against the tape cutting into my wrists, forcing myself not to succumb to blind panic. I just need to hold on, to stay strong long enough for Lincoln to find me. Because if Morris’s warnings are any sign, the worst is still to come.
Chapter 25
Lincoln
I wait near the bar, swirling what’s left of my drink in one hand. The ice clinks against the glass in a soft, rhythmic way that does nothing to soothe the restless tension coiling in my gut. Isabel has been gone too long—she stepped away with Vera not long after we had one of the most passionate moments of my life, but now minutes have crawled by. Ten, fifteen, maybe more. And neither Vera, Isabel, nor Trey, for that matter, has returned.
A knot of worry forms in my chest, tightening with every breath. I lean against the marble counter, scanning the opulent room. The music swirls in the background. Laughter bubbles up in distant corners, the hush of discreet conversations and the occasional moan from a couple too carried away to care about subtlety. But no sign of Isabel.
I check my phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. No messages, no calls. Blood pounds in my temples, an alarm bell telling me something’s off. I set my drink on the bar, the condensation leaving a slick ring. Then I push off from the counter and start weaving my way through the crowd.
I spot one of the club’s servers in a burgundy vest passing by, balancing a tray of elaborate cocktails. I tap his shoulder to catch his attention. “Excuse me,” I say, striving for polite. “Have you seen a woman in a black dress? She might’ve been with someone in a gold gown, or a tall guy in a navy suit.”