He swallows, steps back, but it’s too late. The realization crashes over me and with it, a burst of adrenaline so sharp it hurts.
I drive my knee up, hard. He doubles over with a strangled sound.
I don’t think. I grab the nearest thing––the ceramic mug from the counter, still half full of cold coffee and swing. It connects with a sickening crack.
Jamie staggers, blood already running down from his nose, his face twisted in shock and pain.
“God, I’m sorry,” I gasp, backing away. “I didn’t mean—are you—”
His roar cuts through the room.
Before I can reach the door, he’s on me.
His arm snakes around my throat, and everything goes white.
“Why,” he grits out, voice shaking, “is this so damn hard?”
My fingers claw at his arm, the edges of my vision tunneling. I try to scream, but nothing comes out.
The last thing I feel is the warmth of his blood on my hand, the sound of my own pulse roaring in my ears—
And then, nothing.
Something drips.
It’s slow, rhythmic. A quiet pat against tile or maybe wood and for a long moment, that’s all I can focus on. That sound, and the heavy, pulsing ache behind my eyes.
When I try to move, something tugs hard at my leg.
My eyes snap open.
I’m staring at a ceiling I don’t recognize. Smooth white paint, a faint shadow of a ceiling fan spinning slow circles overhead. The air smells faintly like cedar and laundry detergent. It’s warm. Too warm.
I try to sit up, but my ankle catches again. My gaze jerks down and my stomach flips. A bedsheet that’s torn down the middle, knotted tight is looped around my ankle and tied to the leg of the bed.
My brain can’t process it.
Then everything hits at once—the apartment, the argument, Jamie’s voice in my ear, the sharp pain at my throat. The mug shattering. His blood.
Panic explodes in my chest.
I push myself upright, ignoring the dizziness that slams into me. My throat feels raw, tender when I swallow.
The room around me is almost… nice. Too nice. A wide bed, clean sheets, pale oak furniture, a soft rug underfoot. There’s a bookshelf, a desk near the window, even a small couch pushed up against the far wall. It looks lived in. Comfortable. Not like somewhere you’d expect to wake up after being—
“Kidnapped,” I whisper.
A low voice answers from the corner. “You’re awake.”
I twist fast—too fast—and the room tilts for a second.
Jamie’s sitting on the couch, an ice pack pressed to his nose. His face is swollen and bruised, dried blood along his upper lip. He looks exhausted. Regretful.
Next to him, sitting in the armchair with one leg slung over the other, is Miles.
He’s reading something.
It takes me a second to recognize the cover—the worn leather, the gold-edged pages. My stomach drops when I realize what it is.
