I turn onto the private access road. The trees close in around us, a tunnel of black branches whipping in the wind. We pass the first perimeter sensor, a hidden laser grid that scans the vehicle. A green light flashes on my dashboard.
We reach the main gate. It looms out of the darkness, a massive slab of black steel barring the way.
I flash my headlights—two long, one short.
The gate begins to roll back with a heavy mechanical groan.
The girl sits up in the back seat. She swallows hard as she takes in the scale of the compound.
I drive through, the tires crunching on the gravel of the long driveway. The main house looms ahead, a modern monstrosity of glass and concrete, cantilevered over the edge of the cliff. The ocean crashes against the rocks hundreds of feet below, the sound echoing like artillery fire over the storm.
I pull into the underground garage, the door sliding shut behind us, cutting off the rain, the wind, and the rest of the world.
The sudden silence is jarring. The hum of the engine dies as I kill the ignition. The air in here is filtered, dry, and smells of cold concrete and high-octane gasoline.
“We’re here,” I say.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and step out. The garage is brightly lit, harsh fluorescent strips reflecting off the polished floor. I walk around to the back door and yank it open.
The girl shrinks against the far door, pulling her knees to her chest. Her eyes are wide, darting around the garage for an exit.
There are none. Just concrete walls and steel doors.
“Out,” I command.
“Please,” she whispers. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”
“Get out of the car.”
She hesitates.
I lose patience. I reach in, grabbing her by the upper arm, and pull her out.
She stumbles, her sneakers catching on the doorframe, and pitches forward.
I catch her.
My arm wraps around her waist, hauling her upright.
For a second, she presses into me. The contact is electric. It shouldn’t be.
She fits against me, her head tucking naturally under my chin. She smells of rain. And beneath that... floral. Sweet. Like crushed petals.
Like the flowers she dropped.
She looks up at me, her breath hitching. Her pupils are blown wide. Fear? Yes. But there is more there, too. A spark of defiance. A refusal to break.
She pushes against my chest with her bound hands.
“Don’t touch me,” she hisses.
The woman is trembling and defenseless, yet she still has the nerve to give me orders.
Not a pro. A pro would be begging or trying to kill me. She’s just... angry.
“If you could walk, I wouldn’t have to,” I say.
I shift my grip, sweeping my arm behind her knees to lift her. She gasps, instinctively looping her bound hands over my neck to keep her balance.
