Engines roar, building into a thunderous vibration that hits the ribs.
Eden’s breath catches when she sees the first two cars launch off the line, tires screaming as they tear down the blocked-off industrial road. Not fear. Something tighter. Brighter.
Interest.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Her posture shifts forward, shoulders tensing, eyes locked on the streaks of metal and smoke.
“You brought me to a street race?” she asks, incredulous.
“You said you were bored,” I reply.
She gives me a look—half shock, half something else. “This is insane.”
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
She swallows, losing her words for a moment.
Good.
Her reaction tells me more than any interrogation ever could.
When it’s my turn to drive, she stiffens once, gripping her seat belt. As the engine revs, as the crowd roars, as the headlights cut through the dim haze, something in her shifts again.
I hit the gas.
The car lunges forward. The world blurs into streaks of darkness and neon. Tires squeal. The engine screams. Eden inhales sharply, bracing herself with one hand on the door.
Fear doesn’t take over.
By the third turn, her hand moves to the center console for balance, her eyes focused on the curve ahead. Her breathing evens. Her body adapts.
She thrives in chaos.
I drift through a tight turn faster than I should. The rear end kicks out. For a split second, the car tilts too hard.
Before I can correct, Eden’s hand shoots out and grips the wheel with mine—just enough pressure, just enough angle—to stabilize it.
The moment is brief, a fraction of a second. It hits me like an electric shock.
By the time I floor it again, the adrenaline rushing through me is doubled—half from the race, half from the woman sitting inches away, pulse racing, eyes bright with a mix of terror and exhilaration.
I glance at her. She looks alive.
More alive than she has since the night I dragged her into a van.
When her gaze meets mine, something burns between us—an unspoken acknowledgment that neither of us walked into this night the same person we were yesterday.
Ten minutes later, I pull into the underground garage beneath the building, the energy between us is still tight and humming. She gets out slowly, leaning back against the side of the car as if her legs need a moment to catch up with her heartbeat.
I step close. Just close enough that the heat from her body merges with mine.
She looks up at me, cheeks flushed from the cold night air and adrenaline. “What kind of captive,” she says, “gets taken on… field trips?”
Her tone is teasing—but there’s steel beneath it. A challenge pressing back against my authority, forcing me to confront the line we’re both dangerously close to crossing.
“I needed to see how you react under pressure,” I say.
“Uh-huh.” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “And you liked what you saw?”
