“Uh, Sly?” she asks, realizing there is no privacy in here; it’s just one room with a toilet and sink in it.
I turn to face the door. “Sorry, Wren. But I need to go too, and I won’t leave you alone. I’ll stay facing this way until you’re done.”
She huffs in annoyance, but I hear her clothes rustling. “You’re lucky I only need to pee,” she says in exasperation.
My lips twitch in amusement, and when I hear the sink running, I turn around to relieve myself. She squeaks, quickly turning to face the door when I don’t wait for her to move. “It’s not like you haven’t already seen it,” I say in amusement.
“Don’t you think it’s weird to have someone watch you pee?” she asks as I zip myself back up and wash my hands.
“Not really. In the men’s bathroom, you’re often standing at a urinal beside someone else. We all have to urinate, why be shy about it?”
She just gives me a non-committal hum as I clasp her shoulder and reach forward to unlock the door. As I lean in to pull it open, I unknowingly make the biggest mistake of my life and look down at her, wanting to see her flustered face instead of making sure the coast is clear.
It’s not.
That’s why it takes me a second too long to notice the threat standing in front of us. I raise my head just as a fist comes flying toward my face, knocking me out cold.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WREN
Agasp escapes me when Sly crumbles to the ground. “Sly!” I try to scream his name, but something hits me in the temple. As I fall, strong arms grab me, and someone starts to carry me away.
There’s a slight pinch in the side of my neck, and I try to break free of their hold, but my body won’t respond. I can’t even open my eyes. The hit to my head really did a number on me. I feel like I’ve been drugged. Wait—that pinch I felt, that could have been a needle.
Internally, I start to panic, realizing I’m either drugged or paralysed… or both. I beg my voice to respond, to scream for help, for my arms to move, but nothing happens. My eyes won’t open, but that doesn’t stop tears from rolling freely down my cheeks.
There are muffled voices, but it’s like my ears don’t work properly, either; I’m unable to hear what they’re saying.
The wind is knocked out of me as I’m dropped a short distance onto a hard surface. It’s more jarring than painful,not having expected it. I hear a loud bang, as if a car door or trunk is being closed, and everything goes dark.
Even though my eyes had been closed, I sensed the light. But not anymore. Wherever I am, there’s no light here. My mind tumbles over itself trying to hold onto a single thought.
Is Sly okay? What if they killed him?
Who’s taken me? Robert, Ivan, the FBI? We have too many enemies to choose from; it could be anyone. However, I think the FBI would have announced themselves and arrested us, not knocked us out.
My mind grows foggy as I try to maintain consciousness. Whatever they injected me with must be a sedative because it’s hard to hold onto my train of thought.
Where are they taking me? Will the guys be able to find me? What happens if?—
That’s the last thing I remember thinking before I pass out.
I groan, blinking my eyes open, only to be met with darkness. A whimper escapes as I turn my head, trying to figure out where I am.
I reach out, and my hands hit something hard less than a foot above my face. I reach to the sides, above my head, and kick my feet below me, realizing that wherever I am, I’m completely trapped.
Robert’s found me.
Tears roll down my cheeks as I press my palms to the surface above me. It’s been over a decade since he closed mein the closet for disobeying him. The panic attack I had the last time he did it, when I was fifteen, was enough to have me agree never to disobey again.
Ever since that incident, I can’t even look at an enclosed closet without panicking a little. My closet at Robert’s house didn’t have a door, and the only closet I’ve seen since I left was in the safe house. I was able to avoid thinking about it too much since we were only there one night and I was preoccupied with…other things.
He knows how much enclosed spaces terrify me now. I had convinced myself he hadn’t put me in one in so long because he knew I hated them. But I had been lying to myself. He had no reason to torture me if I was following his rules.
Because that’s what this is for me—torture. My trauma induced claustrophobia meant that if I didn’t get out of here soon, I was going to pass out again, but from panic this time.
The closet shakes, and I gasp. What the—Wait, closets don’t bounce. I take a second to listen and reorient myself. I’m lying on my back, and the motion and rumbling of an engine tells me I must be in the trunk of a car. That means I’m not back at Robert’s house. At least not yet. That might be where they are taking me, though.
