I lunged to the sink, sure I had set it there. Then I spun around, eyes flicking between the line of dark stalls. Someone else was in the bathroom. Teeth clenched and fists ready, I kicked in one door after another, my brows pulling together when I found no one.
Then the roar of the bikesfaded.
Heart in my throat, I sprinted out of the bathroom, my eyes wide as I spotted all four bikes zipping toward the on-ramp for the highway. Four. As in someone was on mine and it wasn't me. They had my helmet on, their outfit identical to mine and their stature the same. Leaning forward on the bike, they glanced over their shoulder in Rafe's direction, flashing a thumbs up.
"Hey!" I shouted, panic setting in. "Rafe!"
Then a gloved hand clamped over my mouth from behind, and I was dragged kicking and screaming backward.
?Arden?
My knees hit hard metal, a van door slamming shut as hands gripped every part of me. One tangled in my hair, one fisted the back of my jacket, another forced my wrists behind me until the bones ground together.
Masks gleamed in the dim light—four of them, faceless gods in the dark. The one binding my wrists wore a devil's mask, its paint torn in places like someone had clawed at their face. Another crouched low in a gas mask and a black hoodie, the hood pulled up to hide any identifying features. The others—I didn't get to see them before a hood was thrown over my head. I screamed, wrenching left and right.
“Hold her,” one said. His voice was smooth, deliberate. "Arden, please, calm down."
I thrashed, but they pinned me down effortlessly. My head slammed against the van wall, white stars sparking behind my eyes. “You fight pretty,” another murmured. The tip of his gloved finger trailed the line of my bicep, a mockery of affection.
“Don’t touch me!” My voice broke, raw and useless.
Someone laughed. “Damn. You said she'd be a fighter, but that kick's fucking lethal.”
“Shut her up and get her still,” the one closest to me ordered. "We can't make the incision with her squirming."
Incision?I screamed, louder.
A hand caught my head, yanking up the hood long enough to press a cloth into my mouth. Sweet, chemical fumes filled my throat before I could twist away. “Breathe, darling,” he said, almost tender. “We're not going to hurt you.”
I tried not to fall unconscious—God, I tried—but my lungs betrayed me. The drug slid through my veins, thick and numbing. My limbs grew heavy. The engine growled to life, drowning out my shallow breaths. Someone said, sounding further and further away, “Get me the numbing cream.”
The last thing I felt was a gloved hand smoothing my hair back from my neck before the darkness finally took me.
When consciousness returned, it came in fragments—heat first, then pain.
The air smelled like smoke and liquor. Firelight painted patterned, navy walls in slow, writhing licks of orange, every flicker carving deeper shadows into the room. I tried to move, but rope bit into my wrists, my chest, my ankles. The chair beneath me was high-backed and heavy, its wood cold against my spine.
The metallicclickof a lighter broke the silence. A man sat across from me, relaxed, a glass of brandy balanced in one hand and a lighter in the other. He flicked it open and closed. Open. Closed. The flame’s reflection danced in his eyes. They were a deep amber with strikes of green. The engraving of the lighter flashed with hismovements—V.S.My chest tightened. Viktor Shaw. My lighter.
He must’ve taken it from the penthouse while Creed had the bikes out.
I swallowed hard, the motion scraping against something sore. My neck ached like the skin had been tugged or cut. The pain radiated at the base of my skull, a tender burn that made my head throb.
Incision.The memory came back to me through the last remnants of whatever drug my kidnappers had soaked that cloth with, likely chloroform. My pulse hammered against the ropes, the chair creaking as I strained against my restraints. The man across from me noticed, straightening as he realized I was awake.
He wore a tailored black suit that looked poured over his frame. The maroon shirt beneath was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a line of skin and the faint glint of a gold chain resting against his throat. The color deepened the gold in his hair, every strand swept back in a way that looked effortlessly wealthy. His jaw carried the faintest shadow of stubble, and every finger bore a ring. He smelled of smoke and rain-soaked wood, the warmth of the fire tracing the hard planes of hischest beneath the shirt, the slow shift of muscle when he lifted his glass.
His gaze held, steady, unhurried. "Arden Creed," he said, his voice rumbling outward and edged with a hint of amusement. "Nice of you to finally rejoin the land of the living, darling."
My eyes narrowed.Darling. One of the men in the van had called me that. I was sure of it. "What did you do to me?" I asked, trying to sound braver than I felt.
His eyes glimmered as he nodded to the coffee table between us. There was a small black square sitting on a cloth. It was bloody, and I put two and two together quickly. I jerked my gaze back to his.
"You removed the device Halden put in my neck? Why?" Then with a hard, uneven breath. “You’re the Buyer, aren’t you?”
A smile touched his mouth. “Buyer,” he said softly, like he was testing the word out for the first time. “I think I’d prefer Opportunist.”
He juggled the lighter and his glass for a moment, lifting his hips and pulling a phone from his pocket. He set it face up on the table. On its screen was a map. City blocks rendered in 3D. Overlaid on the map were fourred dots. They zipped along, the rest of Creed still riding their bikes, before the dots all slam to a stop. Fuck, they werejustthen realizing I wasn't the woman on that bike.
