It opened easily, and she stumbled backward.
Shelves lined the sides of the walls.
Bottles teetered in rows.
Dieter shoved her inside and softlyclosed the door behind them. The acrid scent of strong cleansers permeated the air.
The light was gone. Darkness filled the space. Flicka blinked. A line of light drilled through the dark near the floor.
Two clicks echoed in the tiny space.
She walked backward, feeling with her fingers until she found a block wall behind her. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.
Black spots appeared inthe bright line.
Dieter hissed,“Flicka.”
Instead of answering, she reached out and found his fingertips in the air to guide him to where she was standing.
When her back bumped the wall, his hands traveled over her shoulders to pat the block.
He whispered, “I locked it.”
His body brushed her as he turned to face the door, one arm shielding her.
As always, he shielded her.
Flicka restedher fingers against his strong back, feeling his heavy muscles expand and contract with each breath. Heat blazed through his shirt and warmed her shivering hands.
She breathed through her mouth, panting, trying to be silent.
Outside, footsteps thundered past, and black spots broke the light seeping under the door.
Men’s voices shouted, muffled by the thick door between them.
Clattering andclanging jumped through the air as the team evidently found the locked door at the end of the hallway.
Shouting.A lot of shouting.
Flicka listened, but the language they were speaking didn’t sound like Monegasque. Their words sounded more guttural, maybe German, but she couldn’t make out enough of it through the closed door to be sure.
They yelled some more, and a crash slammed the air.
Flicka bit her lip. Hot tears striped her cheeks.
Dieter had never given her a gun. If they took her back to Monaco, she would find a way. They couldn’t keep all the bedsheets and belts and knives locked up forever.
Their closet’s doorknob rattled.
Dieter’s back tensed under her hands, and he moved a foot back like he was bracing to fight.
The door rattled in its frame.
Yelling.
Flicka clenchedher fists, hating those guys and Pierre.
Bleach fumes stung her nose, and she rubbed it so she wouldn’t sneeze.
