If he contacted Hufford or anyone from the agency to gloat that he’d kidnapped one of their own, they would never forgive me. Any respect I’d earned would be lost. I would be a liability, not an asset, never trusted again because of either.
Stop. Just stop. Fuck that. Don’t think about that.
I blinked in a weak attempt at steering the drops of sweat on my brow to streak further from my eye. No way in hell would I let Emil Dubinin or his thugs come in here and think that they saw me crying about my fate. Already, my eyes stung from the sweat dripping into my eyes.
But even that was a dumb notion to worry about.
Fuck my pride about Special Agent Hufford finding out I’d been taken.
Screw my concern about looking strong and tough and not like a pathetic woman who’d cry during a traumatic experience.
I had to keep my wits about me. I had to stay level-headed. Smart. Observant. Resourceful and scrappy.
Before I could give any more energy toward what anyone else could think of me—between my coworkers and the criminal who’d captured me—I had to contend with the challenge of survival first.
I had to get out of here. Now.
Just as I rallied myself to look around for something to help break the rope keeping my hands together and my ankles to the legs of the chair, footsteps sounded outside the room.
Slow. Steady.
Deliberate yet unrushed.
He was coming.
I swallowed again, put on the spot to decide how to handle this.
Nerves made my heart race again. Anxiety twisted my stomach and clutched me in a tension I couldn’t talk myself out of.
He was coming.
For months, I’d never given up the hunt.
I’d told myself in various pep talks that I would be coming for him. That I would find him and get him.
But in all those slow moments of this game of chase, I'd never considered that he would be the one to capture me.
The doorknob spun, and I held my breath for my first interaction with the smug jerk. If I had anything to say about it, this would be the first—and last—time he’d be able to gloat about outsmarting me like this.
7
EMIL
Ifrowned, picking up on a low sound from the other room in the safehouse.
It wasn’t a groan, but more like a growl?
I couldn’t tell, but I accepted the noise with a sigh of relief.
About time.
When she was that lax and sluggish, unmoving and out of it so deeply as I carried her from the car to the safehouse, I worried that maybe the sedative was too severe. With her in my arms, I had a firsthand knowledge of just how petite and short she was. Athletic but so tiny, she did have some meat on her bones. But maybe the dose of the sedative that I’d had on hand wasn’t as one-size-fits-all as I thought it was.
Hearing her stirring was a good sign. I hadn’t killed her with that sedative. Because where would the fun be in that?
Now that she was waking up, I stood and grabbed a bottle of water. Smiling slowly, I relished the thrill of finally having a chance to see what the hell she wanted with me.
And maybe I’d allow myself to delve deeper into what I might want from her.
