My last clear thought?
Run.
But the world fractures. Seconds collapse.
I blink and we’re moving.
The ride home comes in short, blurry flashes—dark treetops, streetlights, the moon. My breath fogs the window, loud and uneven, each exhale dragging.
The seatbelt digs into my ribs. Is it too tight? Or am I just too weak to sit upright?
Jameson hums along to the radio, his voice thick with amusement.
He’s fuckinglovingthis.
When the sign for Nodens’s Used & Rare Books flashes past the window, I shudder.
Something strange pulls just behind my ribs.
I feel fucking sick.
The truck finally lurches to a stop, the world swaying even as it settles.
I pry my eyes open, breath shaky.
Home.
I just need to get inside.
But my thoughts won’t line up. Won’t stick. Won’twork.
The asshole switches off the truck, releases his seatbelt, then places his hands on his lap.
Fuck, everything is so foggy.
If I can just get inside, sleep this off, I’ll be fine.
I fumble for my purse, then reach for the door handle.
When I turn to ask for help, Jameson grabs my arm, driving something sharp into my neck.
“Whadafuck?” I try to scream, but it slurs out, barely a whisper. Something is seriously fucking wrong here.
Four Jamesons blur together.
My brain claws for clarity, but all it finds is blind terror bleeding through the cracks.
Jameson yanks me flush against his chest. I want to thrash. Gouge. Claw his fucking eyes out. But my muscles refuse.
He drags in a deep breath against my neck, murmuring something low and vile. His hand trails lower, fingers pressing possessively against my ass, making my stomach twist.
I’m awake, but my body won’t respond. The world is muffled, warped … distant.
Inside, Louie explodes into an ear-splitting, vicious howl.
My chest heaves.
My limbs stay useless.
