I didn't hear anyone coming.
I felt them.
The shift in the air. The displacement of space. The way the night seemed to hold its breath.
A shadow moved faster than I could react.
A massive gloved hand slammed over my mouth. The scent of ammonia and stale tobacco flooded my senses, burning my nose, coating my tongue. I tried to drive my heel into his foot—but a heavy blow caught me at the base of my skull.
The world turned into a kaleidoscope of neon and gray.
My knees buckled. Gravel bit into my skin as I went down, sharp and unforgiving. The last thing I felt was the cold pavement against my cheek—rough, wet, smelling like oil and rain.
The last thing I heard was my own heartbeat, thundering in my ears, begging me to move, to fight, to live.
Then everything went black.
Chapter 2
Indigo
Consciousness returned like a drowning woman breaking the surface—gasping, disoriented.
The first thing I registered was my own heartbeat. Too fast. Thrumming in my temples, my throat, my wrists.
The second thing was the silence. I wasn’t on the gravel of the parking lot.
The third thing was the fabric against my skin. Soft and frilly.
I wasn't wearing my clothes.
My stomach turned to ice water.
Okay. Okay okay okay. Don't panic.
There was a terrifying blank space between the parking lot and waking up.
I cracked my eyes open. Just a slit.
I was on a plush velvet sofa in a room that screamed "old money and bad taste." Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the Manhattan skyline from a height that made my stomach drop. I looked down. I had been stuffed into a frilly, white lace doll outfit—the kind with puff sleeves and a petticoat.
I did a quick mental survey, bracing for the worst. No restraints on my wrists or ankles. No gag. My legs were sore, and my headwas thumping, but my pussy felt untouched. But why in the fuck was I wrapped up like a goddamn gift? My skin crawled like tiny ants running underneath.
"What kind of weird-ass shit is this?" I spoke my thoughts out loud, my voice cracking.
"You're awake.” The voice was low, amused. I followed it to a wingback chair where a heavy-set white man sat watching me.
White, heavy-set, with a few strands of gray hair slicked back over a balding scalp. You could tell that thirty years and fifty pounds ago, he might have been handsome. Now, he just looked like a predator who had eaten too many of his prizes.
Right before everything went black in that parking lot, I’d had one terrifying thought… Malachai had found me.
I looked at the man in the chair again. Whoever this creep was, he wasn’t the Hand of God. And that meant I still had a chance.
I sat up, ignoring the throb in my skull. I didn't pull the lace down. I didn't hide. I stared him down like he was just another trick at the club.
"You don't seem scared of me," he said, his eyes narrowing.
I let out a short, dry laugh. "Fear is a luxury I can’t afford, old man. And honestly? You look like you’d have a heart attack if I actually screamed."
