“He’ll definitely come for her,” Beeks said.
“Especially once we send him a picture,” Weeks said, pulling out a phone.
“Angle it to see the cut on her cheek.” Beeks pointed to her face.
A little of her anxiety eased. They didn’t talk like men intent on sexually assaulting her, but the comment about a cut gave her pause.
“Light’s not good,” Weeks said.
Beeks reached down, grabbed her chin, and wrenched her face to the side. The move pulled her skin, and pain rippled from her temple to her jaw. Masked by adrenaline and fear, she hadn’t even noticed the wound. A sobering thought when considering what lay ahead of her. Did she have other injuries she hadn’t noticed yet? Ones that would slow her down once she escaped?
Deciding those thoughts weren’t helpful, she gritted her teeth and glared at Weeks. His flash went off once, then Beeks released her.
Weeks stared down at her, his arms crossed. “There’s nothing in this room but the bed,” he said. “Even if you wanted to take your chances with the storm, the windows are nailed shut, and we’ll hear if you break the glass. Be a good girl and hunker down. I doubt your man will keep you waiting too long.”
“He’s not my man,” she snapped.
Both men rolled their eyes. “Whatever,” Weeks muttered, before they turned and walked out. A sound she thought might be a hook latch falling into place scraped against the wood after the door closed.
She remained still, listening for any hint of their plan other than their intent to send Lovell the picture of her with the cut on her cheek. Not that she expected killers-for-hire to be bastionsof honor, but the fuckers were taking credit where creditwasn’tdue. She distinctly remembered hitting her face on the handrail when she fell.
Shoving that useless thought into a box, she calmed her mind and tuned her ears in.
“I want him to suffer for a while,” Weeks said.
“The longer we wait, the more panicked he’ll get, the more willing he’ll be to go along,” Beeks agreed.
Daphne’s brows dropped. She’d met Lovell less than forty-eight hours ago, and even she knew he wasn’t the panicking type. Or if he was, he sure as shit wouldn’tactout of panic.
Something a wife—Daisy—should know.
Yet another reason the connection to his ex seemed suspect. But also a question for another day.
“Let’s give it three hours, then we can drive to town, grab some takeout, and make the call from there,” Weeks said.
Whatever Beeks said in response was nothing but a mumble as they moved into another part of the cabin. Silence descended, and with it, the energy and adrenaline drained from her body. And she ached. Everywhere. Her back, her hips, her shoulders. Her head. That one actually had her a little concerned. She’d blacked out but couldn’t be certain if it was from the fall or the Taser. Fingers crossed she didn’t have a concussion.
On the plus side, at least she’d gone to the bathroom in her rental before packing. Things could be way worse.
She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. As tempting as it was, she didn’t want to fall asleep and miss their departure. That didn’t mean she couldn’t give her body some rest, though. It wouldn’t heal in three hours, but she could do her best not to make it worse.
Keeping her ears tuned to the men on the other side of the door, she stared at the ceiling and began counting the number of slats in the beadboard overhead. When she finished that, shemoved on to the knots in the unfinished wood. When darkness made it hard to see any details, she turned her mind to plotting the next few scenes in her current work in progress.
She’d plotted her current projectandthe one after that when heavy footsteps started moving around again. Her agent would be so thrilled.
The mumbling grew louder, along with the sound of jackets being pulled on. One set of boots moved closer to the door as an impulsive idea shot into her head. She had no idea if it would matter, but it couldn’t hurt. Rolling to her right, she grabbed the edge of the comforter with her bound hands, then rolled all the way to her left, wrapping herself up like a burrito with the top edge falling over her head.
When the latch lifted and the door swung open, she played possum. Whoever drew the short straw to check on her hovered in the opening. Seventeen seconds later, the door closed and the latch scraped back into place.
“She’s asleep,” Weeks said.
“I expected more of a fighter,” Beeks replied.
Weeks’s reply was lost as they opened the front door, and a gust of wind rattled the windows. She still had her jacket on, and they’d cranked the heat up to something toasty, but a chill raced up her arms at the thought of the raging storm.
Tossing the blanket off, she rolled over to her back and listened. The rumble of the car, muted by the weather, was barely distinguishable, but the sweep of lights over the trees outside her window was unmistakable. Unfortunately, the brief illumination reminded her of what she’d face when she escaped. It was a dark and stormy night, to be sure. It wasn’t the first time she’d live a cliché, though.
Wanting to be certain they didn’t change their mind and head back, she counted to one hundred before getting the show on the road. Jackknifing into a sitting position, she scooted tothe end of the bed until her feet hit the floor. Grateful her eyes had adjusted—as much as possible—to the darkness, she grabbed the extra length of the zip tie around her wrists with her teeth. With a mix of wiggling and pulling, she rotated the tie so that the locking mechanism was between her palms. Then biting down hard, she lowered her hands, tightening the restraint until the edges of the heavy-duty plastic cut into her skin. It hurt like hell, but from experience, the worst was yet to come.
