“No . . . that’s not . . . happening.” I try to stand, but my body is heavy and the room starts spinning. “What did you—”
“Just something to help you relax.” His voice sounds far away, like I'm underwater.
No, no, no.
“You drugged me?” The words come out slurred.
“I planned ahead,” he says as if kidnapping me is just another item on his to-do list.
My fingers dig into the couch cushion as my vision blurs. I look down at the coffee table, to my bear.
I need him.
But I can’t move. My eyelids refuse to stay open. I blink rapidly and sink back onto the couch, fighting to stay awake as Walsh hovers over me.
And suddenly I'm eleven years old again. Trapped. Metal crunching. Glass breaking. Sarah screaming.
Then nothing.
Chapter 3
Connor
The ferry's engines rumble beneath us as we cut through Long Island Sound toward Connecticut. Leaning against the driver's side door, I continue to watch Henneman's chest rise and fall in the passenger seat. He’s snoring like someone's trying to strangle a bear in slow motion. Makes me want to test if suffocation would improve the acoustics.
I reach over and jab his shoulder.
He doesn’t wake, just shifts in the leather seat, head lolling, then right back to that malfunctioning freight train impression.
Fuck my life.
Actually, fuckhislife. One of us isn't making it to Connecticut if this keeps up.
I rub at my temples with my thumbs, reminding myself this was my idea. But there’s still another hour until we dock in New London, and the urge to wrap my handsaround his throat and squeeze until the noise stops is becoming harder to ignore.
Throwing him overboard is out of the question. My left shoulder still aches from dragging him out of the apartment and into the parking garage two hours ago. He’s six-foot-seven and built like a brick house, but the sedative hit him hard. One moment he was upright, the next he was a ragdoll. I had to half-drag, half-walk him the whole way to the car, hoping to hell no one looked too closely.
They didn’t. No one ever does.
My phone vibrates against the center console, the screen lighting up with Viktor’s name. I decline the call. Again. Fourth time this hour. No doubt my friends are all wondering where the fuck I am when I should be toasting Eli and Alexei right now, celebrating the start of their new life together.
Instead, I'm on a fucking ferry with an unconscious giant, heading to Stonington to commit marriage fraud. Strategic, if nothing else. The kind of move my father would admire if he had anything resembling a soul.
Lucky for me, Connecticut has no waiting period, and no witnesses are required. You can acquire a marriage license and hold a ceremony the same day. We’ll be in and out, then back to Rosewood Bay by dinner.
My parents are planning to announce my engagement to Veronica Callahan at the press conference for the merger next week. Can’t wait for that shitshow. Nothing destroys an arranged marriage faster than a surprise husband.
The thought shouldn't make me smile. It does anyway.
Marrying Ryan Henneman is the cleanest, sharpest play I have left, like threading a pass through three defenders—risky but devastating when it works.
It’s not something I truly want for myself. I spent the last six days dissecting every possible exit strategy from the bullshit my father dropped on me. I tried blowing up my relationship with Veronica in public, tried letting rumors fly about club hookups, even let her find me with some girl sucking my dick.
Didn’t move the needle an inch.
Veronica wants this marriage as badly as our parents do. But why? She doesn't need me, doesn't love me, doesn't even like me half the time.
There was only one solution left. Marry someone else.
