Page 154 of To Catch a Sub

The black place in his chest that used to hold his heart clenched as he watched them stuff an unconscious (or dead) Colette into what looked like a large shipping crate, then load it into the back of a white panel van.

* * *

She awoke naked and bound.

Colette had a brief moment when she hovered in that place between asleep and awake to hope it hadn’t really happened. But that moment faded, taking hope and peace with it.

The metal around her wrists wasn’t cold, meaning it had been on long enough for her body to warm it, though goosebumps pebbled the skin of her arms and legs and her nipples were hard from the chill.

Nausea rolled up her throat, and Colette turned to her side, the world spinning dizzily. Her legs weren’t bound, so she scooted to sit on the side of the bed, one arm pulled tight across her body thanks to the short chain that connected a pair of simple handcuffs to the center of the slatted headboard.

She breathed through her nose, swallowing hard against the need to vomit. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or a reaction to whatever it was they’d injected her with that caused the nausea. After a moment it passed, and she was able to look around.

The elegant bedroom had wood floors, cream colored walls, and heavy maroon drapes covering what she assumed were two windows. A round glass and gold lamp on the bedside locker illuminated part of the room, while light that poured in through an open interior door cast a whiter light over a small seating area near the windows.

Colette scooted back to the center of the bed, which had been stripped bare of the duvet and any pillows.

She had no idea where she was—the room was elegant if somewhat old-fashioned in its color palette. She had no idea what time it was—the windows were completely covered.

Had it been hours, or days? Was she in London, or had she been unconscious long enough for them to have taken her across Europe, stashing her in one of Damien’s properties, so hidden and well-guarded no one would ever find her.

Colette slapped both hands over her mouth, holding back the hysterical sobs that wanted to spill out.

She’d get through this. Somehow. She’d survive and she’d escape and then she’d do what she should have done before and flee to the Americas. She had the money to disappear, but she hadn’t wanted to give up her life. It was one thing to run away from immediate danger. It was another to let someone effectively kill her by forcing her to abandon everything and become someone else.

She’d never see Landon again.

Now a tear did slip down her cheek, hitting the edge of her hand. She was trying so hard not to think about him, but suddenly she couldn’t think about anything else.

Had they killed him? They’d shot him with two different tasers, the pain on his face terrifying. The last thing she remembered was them grabbing him, pulling him off the roof of the car. What had happened next?

Maybe…maybe he was here too, wherever here was. It was terrible for her to hope for that, to wish for him to be in the same danger she was in, but some part of her did hope for that. Then she wouldn’t be alone.

This isn’t like before. Someone will be looking for you. Landon, Interpol, someone.

Treacherous hope blossomed inside her, and she tried to stamp it out. Hope was dangerous.

Landon was probably dead—why leave witnesses? And Interpol…well Interpol might look for Landon’s killer, but that didn’t mean they would look for her. Maybe Rolf or Andrei…

The person most likely to be able to find her was Novak, who would have the most information about Damien. He wasn’t exactly a fan of hers. When he found out she’d been taken, he’d probably be pissed he hadn’t managed to implant her with a tracking device and organize her kidnapping himself.

Right now she wished she did have a tracking device somewhere under her skin.

Colette dropped her hands from her mouth, willing herself to go emotionally numb. She couldn’t think about Landon. Couldn’t hope that he was alive. Or let herself believe rescue was coming.

A door opened, snapping back against the wall. The entrance to the bedroom was hidden from view around a corner, so she had a few seconds between the sound and someone appearing.

She scooted back and yanked her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, the chain to her handcuffs pulled tight over her shoulder.

Damien prowled into the room, his eyes bright, light brown-blond hair streaked with gold in the light of the lamp.

“Ah,” he said with obvious satisfaction. “It’s so good to have you back, wife.”

THIRTY-FOUR

She’d forgotten how thick his accent was, and how broad and heavily muscled his shoulders were.

She hadn’t forgotten that odd gleam in his eye. A look that was either madness, intelligence, or an unholy combination of both.