“Your sister?”
Stone glowered.
Right. Brighton.
“One—no more than a week. Dead serious. You don’t come back, she’ll be walking the roads.” He had a mean streak as woolly as his beard. “Two—she stays in that room. Nobody sees or talks to her. Meals will be delivered and housekeeping will take care of laundry, but she’s responsible for upkeep. Clear?”
Cord nodded. “Crystal.” There was no way the bona fides would be ready that fast, and no way Horvath would stop looking for her so soon. Which meant Cord had to figure out how to buy her more time before Stone tossed her onto the street.
Chapter
Seven
Bexar-Wolfe Lodge, Northern Virginia
Being locked up by Stone Metcalfe was no different than being held by Ladomer Horvath.
Okay, not true at all, but the thought appeased some of the resentment running through Brighton.
“Do you understand?” Cord stood just inside her room. “Don’t leave the room. Everything will be provided?—meals delivered and anything else you need.”
“I’ve just changed one form of captivity for another.” Again, not entirely fair. This wasn’t captivity, not by a long shot, but she wasn’t one to sit in a room all day. That’s part of what got her in trouble in the first place.
Hm, so maybe a little contrition was in order. She’d tried to escape once a long time ago and made some fatal mistakes. So this time around, she wasn’t going to do that. Even if it meant being trapped here with Stone.
Cord’s beard twitched. “I know this isn’t ideal, but he’s right??—you can’t be seen. If Horvath gets wind of your location??—”
“Believe you me, I get it more than any of you.” Strangely??—stupidly???—it wasn’t Horvath she was worried about. Brighton deflated. “But I ruined him. Knew what they intended, and … I let it happen.” Not at first.
. . . . .
Baltimore, Maryland
“No way. I’m not doing it.” How had they figured out she’d fallen for the governor anyway? That she’d even talked with him.
Idiotic question, considering they tracked her every move. Even the measures she’d taken with her phone weren’t foolproof.
Ladomer slid his hand along her cheek, traced her jaw, slipped his fingers behind her neck. In one fell swoop, he slammed her face into the wall.
Pain exploded across her nose and mouth. Cupping her face, she felt warm blood between her fingers. She gaped. He’d never assaulted her face. Only her body. The face had to be pristine—even in modeling, her face had been a commodity. Still was, just now for their clients. But Stone wasn’t a client, and she vowed to never let him become that to her. He was so much better. She’d spent time with him. Admired him. Loved him.
“Want to try that again?” Ladomer asked, standing over her.
Brighton pushed off the wall. Felt her knees quavering, but letting them destroy him ... through her. “No. I can’t do it. He wouldn’t believe me. He—”
His fist connected with her face. Sent her spiraling. Something clipped her legs. She hit the floor hard. Scared?—truly scared for the first time in a long time?—she looked up at him. Wondered how far he’d go. Did it matter?
“We thought you’d be a witch about this.” He dug his phone from his pocket. Swiped a few times. Nodded at someone, then turned the screen to her.
A blurry, grainy image bounced through what seemed to be a live feed or call, someone was in a park of some kind.
Wiping the blood from her mouth, she asked, “What is??—”
A voice too filled the feed??—family, precious.
“No …”
The camera panned and landed on a teen in line for a concert.
