He drugged me. I'm kidnapped. What is he going to do with me? Part of me hopes that if he were going to assault me, he already would have.
But it doesn't seem like that's his plan. I don't know how to describe how he looks at me, but it's… believable that he won't hurt me.
I look out the windows again. It's definitely not the time to escape unless I like wandering around the woods for hours on end with no hope in sight.
No, I'll have to at least wait until daylight to see if I can get any idea of where I am. If I can get away. If I can get my phone…
I hear a door opening and closing, followed by the sound of running water in the loo. Civilized sounds, normal sounds, sounds that don't belong to a man who just drugged me, kidnapped me, and drove me to the middle of nowhere.
Marcus is going to lose his damn mind.
As soon as I have that thought, I wonder… would he? Will he, really?
The thought crashes through me like a wave, and I have to press my palms against my mouth to keep from making a sound. My father would have torn Dublin apart looking for me. And my mother…
My eyes burn, but I won't cry. Iwon't. I am not the type to fall apart.
I'm a good girl who keeps it together, who follows the rules, who does what she's told.
But dammit, I've been doing what I'm told my whole life, and look where it's gotten me.
I swallow hard when I hear footsteps. I straighten, pull my hands from under my legs, even though they're still shaking, and when he rounds the corner, I make myself look at him.
He's massive. I clocked that straight away when he grabbed me, but here in the dim lamplight of this small room, he seems even larger. His shaved head gleams in the firelight, and his silver-gray eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. The scar through his eyebrow is more visible now, a pale line that pulls slightly when his expression shifts, giving him a dangerous edge that shouldn't be attractive but somehow… is.
His shoulders are so broad they fill the doorway, blocking any chance of escape. The black T-shirt he's wearing does nothing to hide the muscle underneath—the kind that comes from hurting people, not from posing in mirrors. Both arms are covered in tattoos, dark Celtic knots that wind down to knuckles that are split and scarred. When he shifts his weight, every movement is controlled. Precise. Like he's done this before.
He's holding a steaming mug that looks almost comically small in his enormous hands.
“Cup of tea, lass? My mother always says it helps to calm nerves, and you look like you need calming.” He shrugs, and the movement makes his shoulders flex in a way that has no business being distracting. “Figured you might want some.”
His voice is rough, gravelly, like maybe he doesn't speak that much.
I stare at the steaming mug. Alright, so if he were going to assault me, would he be making me a cup of tea?
I narrow my eyes at the cup because I can see the name of my favorite tea on the little tag hanging over the edge.
I stare, like it might explode, as he sets it on the table in front of me. Those tattooed fingers release the cup carefully, and I notice the fresh scabs across his knuckles, split and raw. The gesture is almost considerate.
For a second, I can't even process it. I want the damn tea, but what if he's only trying to sweet-talk me and he drugged it? It would be foolish to take anything from him, wouldn't it?
He sighs, and the sound rumbles through his broad chest. “I'm not going to hurt you, Bianca.” Hearing him call me by name makes my stomach flip.
He talks to me as if we're friends, as if he's familiarwith me.
I glare at him. I'm generally a happy person, and scowling doesn't come naturally to me. “You didn't tell me how you know my name.”
Something flickers across his face, not quite guilt, but something darker, more complicated. In this light, his features are all hard angles and sharp edges, brutal and beautiful in equal measure.
“Drink your tea, lass, then we'll talk.”
I shake my head. “I don't want it.” My voice comes out stronger than I expected, and I'm proud to say that I don't sound petulant but insistent. “I want to know why you took me, and I want to know who the fuck you are.”
His eyebrows rise slightly, like he's surprised. “Watch your language, lass. You're too pretty a girl to use words like that.”
The irony hits me so hard I almost laugh.
“Watch my…? You kidnapped me.”
