“This is Ryker,” I say as Camilla and Crew turn to look at me.
“It’s Ronan.” A hesitant voice comes from the other end of the line.
“What the fuck do you want?” I snap.
“I need your help.” The line crackles, and I’m pretty sure he’s in a car if the background noise is anything to go by.
I tap the speaker button so the others can hear what he has to say. “Where’s Chloe?”
“I have her. We’re heading north out of Miami, but I think she needs to see a doctor, and the only ones I know will report back to my father.”
Camilla’s brow shoots up, but it takes me a few extra seconds to process what he’s saying.
“And I’m assuming he doesn’t know that you and Chloe are no longer within the Lombardi compound?”
Silence fills the line before he finally sighs. “I’m sure he’s realized by now, but no, he didn’t know at the time we left.”
“Is she okay?”
“I think so, but she hit her head, and she hasn’t woken up.”
“How long ago?”
“Close to an hour.”
I curse and look up to see Camilla tapping away on her phone and Crew barking orders into his.
“We’re a few hours out of Miami. Ryker will send you an address in the next ten minutes,” Crew announces. “Is there any way for them to track you?”
“I disabled the tracker in my car as soon as I left the compound, and I left without anything other than a burner.”
“Good. Keep driving north until you get the text.”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“Just keep Chloe safe, and I might not slit your throat the second I see you,” I snap before ending the call.
It’s been too fucking long since I’ve spilled blood, and Ronan Lombardi is at the top of my goddamn list.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHLOE
THEN
TEN YEARS AGO
Every muscle screams as I shift in the hard chair.
I’m in a continuous cycle of numbness and agony. One minute I can’t feel a thing, and the next I’m uniquely aware of the ropes slicing into my wrists and the stiffness of being in the same position for days.
But the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional pain. My chest is raw from crying, my throat dry from dehydration and sobbing. Apart from the few times Damon has given me water, we’ve been starved, and weakness clings to every muscle.
At first I was hopeful that I’d have a chance to escape, but with each hour that passes, that hope dwindles.
Even if by some miracle I could slip the binds around my wrists and then the door was by chance left unlocked, I’m starting to question whether I actually have the strength to escape.
Between the hunger and thirst, the near-constant nausea that rolls through my stomach, and the stiffness in my muscles and joints, escape seems impossible.
