Small mercies.
They aren't interested in raping me—at least, not yet. I mean more to them intact than defiled. I take whatever hope I can find.
The floor is concrete. I could be anywhere—a warehouse, deep underground, an isolated prison cell. A basement. A shipping container.
I struggle, whipping my head back and forth, and the cloth slowly works its way loose. With a final violent shake, I free myself from the offensive hood.
An old-fashioned bulb hangs from a bare wire overhead, suspended from a thick iron beam. The pool of light fades into darkness in every direction. My metal chair is the only piece of furniture in sight.
A warehouse. Abandoned, from the looks of it. The concrete is old and cracked, layers of dirt and dust coating the floor. It's chilly—not the frigid temperatures of the mountains, but the cold night air around Lac Léman. Overhead, gaps in the ceiling reveal the ragged outlines of a starry sky against the roof's darker blackness.
Still night, then.
Heavy steps approach from behind me. I stop moving, unsure whether to twist around and locate my kidnapper or continue facing away. My heart races, pounding so loud I'm sure he can hear it.
"I see you've divested yourself of the hood."
A man. Not surprising. Kidnapping tends to be a masculine-dominated sport. I expect at least one. There are probably others, although only one pair of feet approaches.
"I suppose introductions are in order." His deep baritone reverberates in the stillness of the warehouse. In another place, the low rumble might be comforting. Power threads through his words, like Paul's, but this man's voice occupies a lower register. Rolling thunder across a stormy night.
I jerk as he stops behind my chair. The scent of his cologne washes over me—sexy and sophisticated, warring with my mental image of a grizzled street criminal.
He pauses as if waiting for a response, but I have nothing to say.
"It's okay." His tone softens. "I know quite a bit about you, but I'm fairly certain the same is not true for you." Atsksound. "I'm not sure the same wouldn't be said for my brother. I'm wondering, though, if you know who he is."
He means to bait me. I don't rise to it.
Give as little information as possible, Viv.
My father taught me those lessons.
Humanize yourself if ever placed in the position of a victim.
People hurt things. They kill things. My goal is to ensure this man sees me as a person and not as a disposable thing.
"Who are you?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He knows who I am and holds the advantage. Asking why I've been taken might be the more pertinent question, but the directness of that line of questioning doesn't humanize our interaction.
"Now, that's an interesting question, Miss Faulks. I've been many things to many people. An unwanted child. A survivor of the streets. I've been poorer than a street rat and richer than most men. I've been beaten and used, cherished and loved. I've been both the favored and prodigal son. I'm a brother to a man I hate and to a sister I once loved more than life itself." He pauses. "Who are you, Miss Faulks? Are you any of those? Or are you simply a spoiled, rich brat with far too much wealth and a family name you don't deserve? Who are you?"
"I'm just me."
But that's a lie. And, more importantly, he knows it.
"Just you?" A scoff. "I suppose, in the deep of night, that's all any of us are. But, for now, you're nothing but bait in a trap."
"B-bait?" The stammer betrays me.
He doesn't answer, and there's nothing humanizing about being called bait. Bait is disposable. My survival depends on changing that status.
"My father?—"
"I care nothing about your father." He cuts me off. "You're not here because of him, and if you're offering yourself up for ransom, we should clear that up right now. There's a price on your head—one my brother will no doubt pay, but you're not valued by the size of your father's bank account. That's not why you're here."
“Then why?"
