A second man in urban camo punched him in the stomach. Eric saw it coming and tensed his abs. The blow was probably meant to double him over, but all he did was grunt.
The man’s eyes widened a little, and Eric grinned, pulling back his own fist.
The man retreated, Eric took a step…and wobbled.
The fucking tranq dart.
He wasn’t going to be able to fight them off because he wasn’t going to be conscious much longer.
Eric spun, planning to pound on a wall to alert the Spartan Guard. The second assailant was between him and the door, so it wasn’t worth trying to get out of the room, especially as things were starting to fade in and out of focus.
Someone kicked the back of his knee. Not hard but enough to fold his left leg. Off-balance, he dropped, landing on one knee and one hand.
Get up.
The abrupt change in elevation made the effect of the drug worse. He shook his head. Tried, and failed, to rise.
His hands were yanked behind his back, cuffs clicking on. He wobbled and would have face-planted if they hadn’t held him up. Feeling stupid, he prepared to yell for help, but a gag was shoved into his mouth.
And then a black bag was yanked down over his head just before the drugs took him down.
Two hours earlier on the other side of Paris
Nikolett sat cross-legged on the bed in her pajamas.
Pajamas she had no memory of putting on.
Bright morning light sliced across the bedroom, thanks to a crack in the curtains. She’d slept in far later than she normally did and woken up disoriented.
What had happened last night?
Nikolett eyed the pile of discarded clothes she’d stepped over when she went to the bathroom earlier.
You know exactly what happened.
She’d gotten drunk. A few glasses of wine over the course of hours shouldn’t have done it, except due to the pain medication she’d been taking for her leg, she hadn’t been drinking for a month, except that time with Nyx.
They’d started kissing, Gus had felt bad when he saw her leg, and the mood died.
At least until he carried her to the couch, and then into bed. Things were fuzzy post-couch, but she was fairly sure he’d tried to put her into bed and in turn, she’d tried to reignite the spark. She had a distinct memory of him lying on the bed beside her, lips brushing her forehead, her cheek. His hand on her bare thigh.
And then she’d said Eric’s name.
She had a vague memory of Gus recoiling. Remembered trying to correct it, saying Gus’ name, but the damage had clearly been done.
She didn’t know if her clothes came off in the heat of passion while they were kissing on the bed, or if Gus had helped her strip and put on pajamas because she was too drunk to do it herself.
Both options were bad, and she was fighting a sick sense of humiliation and unease that he’d seen her naked and she didn’t remember it.
But that feeling was muted by a growing rage. She’d woken up thirsty and with a headache. She’d taken meds and crawled back into bed but hadn’t been able to go back to sleep, and notjust because it was late morning, long past her normal wake-up time.
Instead, she’d lain there piecing together the end of the evening with Gus and screaming into a pillow when the memory of saying Eric’s name surfaced.
Eric.
He’d been in her head last night. She looked into Gus’ eyes and seen Eric’s. She touched Gus’ dark hair and wished it was Eric’s blond.
Eric was so deeply rooted in her mind and soul that he’d ruined something that could have been.
