He doesn’t even hear the storm.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The moment he wakes, Lachlan knows something is wrong.
It’s a feeling in his bones, a taste on his tongue.
It’s dark outside, but he can feel that he slept too long.
Not wanting to wake Jules, Lachlan carefully slips out from the embrace, his headpoundingso hard it makes him nauseous.His limbs are heavier than they should be and his muscles are weirdly sore.
Jules doesn’t wake at all, doesn’t even stir.
Lachlan checks his breathing, finds a deep, strong rhythm and so he draws the silky covers over Jules, scanning the room before grabbing his gun and knife.The balcony doors are locked.
It’ssilent.
Deafeningly so.
The Estate always seemed to breathe whereas this fucking place is suffocating.Lachlan pulls his boots on, then his jacket.He quietly slips out into the mansion seeking sound or movement, finding nothing but pitch black.No lights on anywhere.He flips a switch on the wall.
Nothing.
The power’s out.
Lachlan tastes metal on his tongue, the citric scent of ozone and wet earth,vetiver and copper.The more Lachlan walks around, the more he thinks he’s dreaming.The silence is so overwhelming he can hear his own heartbeat, the thick crush of his own blood as it moves through his body in pulses.
A nasty suspicion curls low in his guts.
Something was in the champagne, maybe.
But Lachlan had endured weeks of forced tolerance conditioning years ago in RB.He, like the other members of his team, endured a blurry cycle of intravenous heroin and reversal compounds until his body stopped responding the way it should.Forever changed, hardened against chemical persuasion and able to recover faster.
No one else is awake.
No one is in the pool, which, when he glances through a nearby wall of glass, is a watery pit of darkness and debris from the storm he apparently slept through.The formerly picturesque surroundings of the mansion have been torn up and spat out by wind shear.The ground is wet and messy.The formerly starry skies are thick with clouds, the moon nowhere to be seen.
Lachlan has no radio.The satellite phone is in his bedroom.He has one gun and the knife Jules gave him, the custom build.
No rig, no Rook, no Danya.
And something is severely fucking wrong.
When he checks bedrooms, Savannah isn’t in hers, but Roman is.He’s asleep on her bed, fully dressed, hair a mess, mouth all askew.
Lachlan shakes him.‘Ro,’ he whispers.‘Roman.’
The boy doesn’t stir.
Lachlan pats his cheek.
Nothing.
He’s definitely drugged.
‘Fuck.’
Lachlan goes to the cloister of rooms he knows belong to the adults but finds no one inside.His fear is spiralling now, worst case scenarios flitting through his mind like little blades across skin.
