I think I’m in Norway. Or Denmark?
The little I saw of this monstrously huge house as they hustled me through it looked like a showroom for an insanely high-end version of IKEA, all the blond wood, neutral colors, and textiles. There’s a little bookcase in here and the books are all in a language that looks like Danish. Or Swedish. Everything smells of lavender, not the wild, sharp scent of lavender from home but more like a processed, distilled scent piped in because it’s supposed to be “relaxing.”
Bloody fecking hell.
My knowledge of Scandinavia consists mostly of liking their architecture and appreciating what I thought was a generally chill vibe. There’s none of that here. The compound we landed in is a nightmare of sharp, angular lines, all steel and glass. It sticks out from the beautiful forest surrounding it like a boil on my brother’s arse.
The few words I could make out from what they’ve said to each other, sounded like… Swedish, maybe? I canna tell the difference between the languages, though I remember watching a documentary that stated Norwegian and Swedish sound more similar, and Danish is more distinct from the others.
This is of absolutely no help here in giving me a clue about where they’ve taken me, and I never saw a sign that gave me any indication of where we landed.
This bedroom is blandly decorated in neutral colors meant to be soothing, but it’s the mild nature of it that’s scaring me. Bad things shouldn’t happen in beige, restful places like this. But that man just told me I’m going to die and there’s an unassuming white vase filled with unassuming pale flowers on the bedside table and the disconnect is too much and it makes me feel insane.
My ability to read lips isn’t going to be any advantage here. My kidnappers correctly guessed that was how I’d picked up on their colleague’s plans to murder Logan.
Logan fecking MacTavish.
The whirlwind of death that swept through my life in the last forty-eight hours. Logan MacTavish, a giant of a man with hazel eyes and a feral grin. I saved his life and then he saved mine right back.
Of course, I wouldn’tbein this position if I’d just minded my own business. I’m thinking Logan wouldn’t have had the slightest problem with killing those two, with or without my help.
They took me for a reason, but I have no idea what it is. No one has questioned me. They just threw me in here and chained me up. Do they think I know Logan? Like, we’re close friends and he would come to rescue me, like he did outside my building?
I dinnae see that happening.
The chain thuds against the pale wood floor as I limp toward the windows. Maybe if I somehow manage to get this shackle off my ankle, I could climb out? The view is spectacular; this must be the front of the house. It’s facing the ocean and if I squint, I can see a tiny, rocky island with a lighthouse and then nothing but forest and beachfront on either side of the compound for as far as I can see.
When they were hauling me off the helicopter pad behind the house, I noticed the high rock wall surrounding the compound. Here in front, I see the wall ends with an enormous iron fence leading to the fancy marina. Three yachts are docked there, ranging in size and decadence from “I’m a rich bastard and this boat makes it obvious,” to “I’m the wealthiest son of a bitch on the planet and this yacht should make you feel like an ant I’m about to step on.”
The sun is setting as the door opens and two new guards come in, pushing some equipment. I’ve had a CT scan before, and that’s what this big white thing on wheels looks like. Three more people follow them, all in white coats. Two are women, who ignore me, conversing quietly with their heads bent close. The third one is a tall, skinny guy with the kind of fake professional smile most doctors seem to have.
“Miss Blair, is it? How are you today?” He’s almost shouting at me, speaking very slowly.
“I’m not doing well,” I say very deliberately and rather loud, just like he did. “I’ve been kidnapped and I’m chained to a bed.” I hold up my ankle as a visual aid. “I dinnae suppose you’d like to help me get out of here?”
He chuckles like I’d just said the cutest thing.
“We’re here to do some tests,” he continues. “It will be much easier on you if you cooperate.” Thanks to him shouting at me, I can hear that he’s speaking English with an American accent. Behind him, the two women are setting up the machine and pulling out…
Shite. Are those restraints?
“What kind of tests are ye planning on, Doc?” I’m keeping as far away from them as the chain will allow, but the two guards are already heading for me.
“Simple blood tests, nothing to get hysterical about,” he says, all his false affability is gone. “Just sit down and we’ll get started.”
I ponder my options. The guards are going to hold me down if I dinnae do it. But the thought of justlettingthese feckers take my blood… “Why are ye needing my blood? This canna be standard hostage protocol.”
He nods irritably and the guards are on me, dragging me over to an armchair and slamming me onto it. “Are you going to require the restraints?” He’s leaning close to me and his breath smells like garlic and cigarettes.
“Are ye gonna tell me why you’re taking my blood?”
In seconds, they’ve strapped my arms and legs to the chair, even though I’m thrashing wildly like a hooked trout. One of the women, mouth tight with disapproval, fastens a band around my arm and finds a vein with ruthless efficiency, filling several tubes with my blood. I count twelve vials before I get nauseous and look away.
The eejit doctor’s blathering questions at me. “Do you have a regular cycle?”
“Are ye serious right now?”
“Are you up to date on all your immunizations?” He’s checking off the blood vials as she hands them to him.
