Wakingupwithahangover when I didn’t actually choose to go through the process of getting one is patently unfair. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton while also throbbing like an open wound, and someone seems to have replaced my tongue with sandpaper. To top it all off, my stomach is in open revolt and churning with nausea.
All of that and I never even got to enjoy a pleasant buzz.
I blink a few times to get some moisture to my desert dry eyes as I glance around and take in my surroundings. Even with the fog clouding my brain, I can tell the situation doesn’t look promising. I’m in the cargo area of an SUV with blacked-out windows, my hands cuffed behind me and, considering the vibrations of the vehicle, we’re moving quickly.
There’s a haze obscuring the details of exactly how I ended up here, but it definitely appears I’ve been kidnapped.Again. It does not bode well for my future that I seem to be making a habit of that.
Well, on the bright side, someone thought to put some clothes on me while I was out, so I’m not going through all this naked. Though the clothes are definitely not mine and the scent on them is unpleasant enough to make my nose wrinkle with distaste.
At least these guys have better wheels than my last kidnappers. If they’d crammed me into another tiny car, I would have probably thrown up by now given the state of my stomach. Rossi’s goons didn’t drug or restrain me, though, so the more spacious ride isn’t that much of an improvement taking into account the whole tranquilizer dart thing.
Maybe that’s why I’m so queasy.
Closing my eyes, I swallow a few times, struggling to settle my stomach, before pushing myself up to a sitting position. Not the best idea. A wave of dizziness passes over me and I slump to the side of the vehicle, cracking my head on the paneling. I let out a hoarse groan, squeezing my eyes shut as the impact vibrates through my skull. The level of pain in my head spikes into a whole other stratosphere. My stomach roils and bile burns at the back of my throat, but I manage to avoid vomiting.
Barely.
I’m not sure how long it takes the nausea to fade, but when I open my eyes again, one of the guys in the backseat in front of me has turned around. He’s looking at me with something like concern on his face. My observer is young, maybe my age, with dark hair and eyes and he’s much leaner than the guy beside him. In other words, he’s not built like someone I’d expect would go around kidnapping people.
“Please be careful,” he says. “Until the drug is out of your system, your reflexes will be dulled considerably and you will be prone to injuring yourself.”
My sluggish brain takes a moment to process the words before my vocal cords manage a questioning noise, which wassupposedto be me asking “Who the hell are you? What am I doing here? And where are you taking me?”
Apparently my mouth isn’t working correctly.
The guy—a shifter my nose tells me. All… one, two, three, five…no,fourof them are shifters—actually leans over the back of the seat and pats me on the fucking head like a dog.
“Don’t worry,” he says as I shoot him my best glare. “There will be no lasting side effects.”
Likethat’swhat I’m worried about and not the fact that I’ve been kidnapped by random strangers. Again.
I try to force my mouth into motion to ask more questions—or evenaquestion—but that’s not happening. There’s some sort of disconnect between the thoughts in my head and the formation of words and sounds with my mouth.
The guy must notice me gaping like a fish because he pats my head again and gives me what I think is supposed to be a reassuring look. “The aphasia will wear off as well.” He smiles a little. “Drugs that can take down a shifter quickly often have undesirable side effects, but the one I designed is one of the safest.”
What. The. Fuck.
The other guy in the backseat speaks up. “Don’t worry about it, Doc.”
Am I the ‘it’ he’s referring to? I’m not sure, but I don’t think that’s the case. So, what the—
Another stab of agony behind my temples has me hissing in a breath through my teeth.
“… doesn’t improve soon, we’ll have to stop.”
Dammit, what did I miss?
Something has to improve, or they’ll stop. The odds are that ‘something’ has to do with me. Stopping… is good.
If we stop, that means I don’t get any further away from Julien.
As soon as my brain makes that connection, I know what I need to do.
Well, sort of.
I glance at the back window of the SUV, judging the distance behind me.This is going to hurt.
I wait till Doc is looking at me again, then roll my eyes to the back of my head like I’m passing out. Shifting my weight, I let my body fall backward, slamming my head into the thin carpeting on the floor of the vehicle. I ignore the pain and the pull of unconsciousness, jerking my limbs around in the best impression of ‘this is not an improvement’ I can manage.
