I bounce in and out of consciousness. Sometimes I can stay awake, but I’m hardly coherent. Others, my mind is so hazy that I eventually just drift back to sleep. I’m not sure how long this lasts, but when I open my eyes for the last time, I shoot up in bed.
My limbs aren’t heavy anymore, but I feel like I’ve slept enough for several lifetimes.
I glance around the room, momentarily thrown for a loop as I take in the high, wood beams and hardwood floors. The four-poster bed I’m in is massive, and my eyes trail the intricate headboard. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, crafted from mahogany with carved designs of wildlife.
The dark sheets pool around my waist, and I look down at my clothes as murky memories fade in and out.
I’m in an old band t-shirt that rides up over my dark purple panties, making the memory of being bathed and manhandled slap me in the face.
The fucker bathed me!
And he touched me! Again!
I throw the covers off, pausing when I notice the yellow, fading bruises running up my legs. There are a few Band-Aids over my cuts, but everything looks like it’s healing nicely.
If it weren’t for the fact that I was drugged and kidnapped, and the fact that I can feel something dry and uncomfortable stuck to the inside of my thighs, I could find it in myself to be a little more appreciative. But all I feel is fucking rage as I clamber out of the bed.
My feet hit the cold wooden floors below, and I take in the doused fireplace across from me, the massive dresser along the left wall, and the vanity that looks like it hasn’t beentouched in years. I notice a pair of my shorts folded neatly on the leather chair close to the bed and grab them before yanking them on.
“Is this a hunting lodge?” I question out loud as I shuffle towards the door.
Oh, god.
Where the fuck am I?
I frantically search for any kind of weapon, but notice that the base near the fireplace is empty. The iron tools used to tend to the flame are gone, and the hope in my chest fizzles out.
I lift a hand to my neck, only to stop when I feel something there. I grab the chain, wrath burning me alive as I realize there’s a fuckingcollarwrapped around my throat.
One glance in the vanity’s mirror, and my teeth grind. It’s black, with a piece that hangs down close to the bright purple bruise Rowan left on my skin. When I pull it, it tightens until I’m choking myself.
“What…THE FUCK?!” I shout, not caring if my captor is in the house. I’m going to lose my damn mind!
I storm towards the door, yanking it open as I’m met with a silent, dark hallway. An eerie feeling creeps along my neck, but it doesn’t douse my fury as I tear through the house. I stalk down the stairs, my bare heels smacking into the steps with a thud as I grab the end of the handrail and round into a cozy living room.
There’s a dark leather recliner and a matching sofa next to it. I find another fireplace, and the mantle has a single photo on it. The frame is face down, and it makes me pause in my war path. I turn and peer into the dark kitchen, my eyes narrowing as I observe the pendant lights hanging over the wide island.
I’m alone.
My eyes shift to the elegant front door, and my feet move without thought. I step onto the welcome mat and grab the doorknob. When I turn the knob, it doesn’t budge. I try the locks, turning them every which way until I’m struck by the bone-chilling discovery that it’s locked from theoutside.
I step back, my mind going numb as I feel the walls closing in on me.
This isn’t real.
This can’t be happening right now.
Where did it all go wrong?
I lift my hand to my chest, and the slamming rhythm of my heart jolts my brain. A switch flips as I recognize that I’m in a survival situation.
I have to find a weapon. Freaking out won’t help me when Rowan comes back.
I head straight for the kitchen, pulling on drawers as I rifle through my captor’s belongings. I find a lot of plastic utensils, but nothing that can knock someone out. A wooden block on the counter catches my eye, and I curse when I notice all of the knives have been removed.
“There has to be something!” I hiss, ripping open more drawers. When I get to the one that’s meant to hold spoons and forks, the drawer is empty, save for the plastic holder with designated cubbies. I slam it shut, pacing as I tuck my hands behind my head. I close my eyes, mumbling calming words to myself before I try again. This time, I open the cabinets and find stacks of perfect plates. I go to close it before an idea sparks, and I grab one.
I turn it over in my hands, nodding as I test the weight. It isn’t my first choice, but it’ll work.
