No. Not like this. I can't?—
I try to fight it, try to hold onto consciousness through sheer force of will, but whatever they gave me is stronger than stubbornness. Stronger than fear. Stronger than the desperate need to know if Sloane is still breathing.
The last thing I see before the darkness swallows me is Sloane slumped against the wall, pale and broken.
Then nothing.
I don't know how long I'm under. Minutes. Hours. Time stops meaning anything when you're floating in chemical darkness. But eventually, the void spits me back out, and I wake up in pieces.
First sense that comes back online is smell. Exhaust fumes seep through cracks in the trunk's seal. Rubber and motor oil. Something chemical that burns my nostrils. Then the sensation of movement, a low rumble vibrating through my bones, the occasional bump that sends pain radiating through my entire body.
I'm in a trunk. The realization crashes over me like a wave of ice water, snapping the last cobwebs of unconsciousness from my brain.
Cramped. Dark. Suffocating. The walls press in from every direction, close enough that I can feel them against my shoulders, my knees, the top of my head. The air is thick and stale, recycled through my own lungs so many times it tastes like carbon dioxide and fear. Every breath bounces back at me, hot and damp against my face, and the claustrophobia I’ve always found a way to suppress claws at my chest like a living thing.
Well, this is new. I've had bad nights before, but waking up in a trunk is a personal record.
Focus, Onyx.
My hands are bound behind my back with something that bites into my wrists every time I move, plastic edges cutting into the delicate skin, sending little lightning bolts of pain up my arms. Zip ties. Has to be. My ankles are bound too, and there's tape over my mouth, pulling at my skin, sealing my lips shut, makingeach inhale a conscious effort through nostrils that want to clog with panic.
And underneath it all, the sour stench of my own fear-sweat soaking through my shirt, mixing with the dried blood I can feel crusted on my chin.
Panic floods through me, hot and electric, and I have to fight the urge to scream behind the tape. Screaming won't help. Screaming will only waste oxygen and energy, and I need both if I'm going to survive this.
Think, Onyx. Think.
I force myself to breathe slowly through my nose, counting each inhale and exhale until my heart stops trying to punch its way out of my chest. The trunk is small, barely big enough to contain me, and every pothole sends me rolling against hard metal edges that dig into my bruised body.
My laptop bag. Where's my laptop bag?
The memory surfaces through the drug haze. The strap snapping. The bag flying into the shadows. I shoot up a quick prayer and hope with everything I have they didn't see it. Please let it be in the alley and let Sloane see it.
If she's still alive.
That bag is the only evidence of my investigation that isn't locked in my head. And right now, it's lying in a filthy alley next to my broken friend.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall. Crying won't help. Nothing will help except getting out of this trunk and away from whatever my uncle has planned for me.
The auction. That's where they're taking me. Has to be. Brennan said something about a plane, which means they're moving me somewhere else, somewhere I can't escape, somewhere no one will ever find me.
Sloane. God, Sloane. Her arm, blood in her hair, slumped against that filthy wall like a broken doll. Did someone find her? Is she okay? Did they leave her alive?
Knowing Brennan he would kill her just for shits and giggles.
The guilt hits me harder than any of those men did, crushing the air from my lungs. She got hurt because of me. Because she tried to help me. Because I dragged her into my nightmare and now she's paying the price.
Anyone who helps me dies.
I said those words to her less than an hour ago. I didn't think they'd come true so fast.
The car hits another bump, and my head cracks against something metal. Pain explodes behind my eyes, sharp and blinding, and for a moment I think I might pass out again.
But I don't. I hold on, clinging to consciousness with everything I have, because passing out means giving up and I'm not ready to give up yet.
My wish. The red envelope I dropped in that box, the desperate prayer I whispered in a candlelit room. Did anyone read it? Does anyone even know I'm gone?
Probably not. Why would the Syndicate care about one more desperate woman with a sad story? They probably get hundreds of wishes a week. Mine is just another piece of paper in a pile of paper, waiting to be sorted and discarded.
