I turn toward the SUV. This time no one stops me. Because they see it now. The panic is gone. Not because I’m calm. Because it hardened. They took her. Everything shifts. This is no longer war. War has rules, sides, strategy, endings men can name. This is annihilation. Everything will burn until I find her. And when I do, I’ll make sure the men who touched her understand there are worse things than death.
There’s me.
Awareness comes back in pieces. Not all at once.
At first, there is only weight. Heavy air. Heavy limbs. Heavy thoughts that won’t connect no matter how hard I try to pull them into shape. Then sound. A low hum somewhere nearby. A scrape. A muffled voice.
My own breathing. Too fast. Too shallow. I try to open my eyes, but they don’t listen right away. My lashes flutter once, twice, the world around me nothing but smeared shadow and dim light bleeding in from somewhere I can’t see.
For one second, I don’t know where I am. For one blessed, terrible second, my mind gives me nothing. Then it all comes back. The parking lot. The idling car. The hand over my mouth. Eli shouting my name. The door slamming.
Gone.
My eyes snap open. I inhale hard, but the breath catches halfway when I try to move and can’t. Panic slams into me. Not sharp this time.Worse. Deep. Full-body. My wrists pull tight. Pain bites into my skin, and I jerk again before I understand what’s happening. Something is around them. Rope. Restraints. I don’t know. I only know they don’t give when I yank.
My arms are stretched above me, pulled toward opposite corners. My ankles too. Bound wide, tight, each limb tied to a bedpost until my body is forced open in a rigid X against the mattress. “No,” I whisper. The sound barely leaves my mouth. My throat feels dry, raw, like I screamed at some point and don’t remember it.
I pull harder. The restraints dig in. My shoulder burns. Nothing moves. “No.” This time the word shakes. I force myself to stop. Not because I want to. Because thrashing won’t help. Because panic wastes strength. Because Cobra would tell me to think.
Cobra.
The thought of him hits so hard my chest caves around it.
I close my eyes for half a second, just long enough to keep myself from breaking open completely.
Think.
I need to think. I open my eyes again and make myself look.
The room is bare. Not abandoned, exactly. Too clean for that. Too intentionally empty. Concrete floor. Stained walls. One naked bulb hanging overhead, dim enough to leave shadows in the corners. No windows that I can see. One metal chair near the wall. A small table with nothing on it. No warmth. No clutter. No mistake.
This isn’t a place someone forgot. This is a place someone prepared. The realization crawls over my skin.Then I realize why I’m cold. My breath stops. I look down. No clothes. Nothing. Every part of me exposed under that ugly light.
A sound tears out of me before I can swallow it, small and broken, not quite a sob, not quite a gasp. I try to curl inward, but I can’t. The restraints hold me exactly where they want me. Exposed. Helpless. Displayed. My stomach twists so hard I think I might be sick. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Don’t spiral. Don’t leave your body.
Stay here. Stay alive.
My wrists ache. My ankles burn. My skin prickles with cold and humiliation and fear so intense it feels like another set of hands on me. I hate that. I hate all of it. I pull in one breath. Then another. Neither is steady. But they come. That matters. I listen.
Voices drift from the other side of the door. Not yelling. Not rushed. Calm. Casual. That makes it worse. If they were shouting, maybe I could believe something had gone wrong for them. If they sounded frantic, maybe I could believe they were scared. They aren’t.
One man laughs. Low. Easy. Like this is nothing. Like kidnapping me and tying me to a bed is just another task in an ordinary day.
“She awake yet?” someone asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” another answers. “They’ll want her conscious soon enough.”
My stomach drops. I turn my head as far as I can, searching the room, forcing my eyes to adjust past the blur and shadows. That’s when I see him.
Eli.
He’s slumped against the far wall, wrists bound in front of him, ankles tied together, head tipped forward at an awful angle. Blood darkens one side of his face and trails from his hairline toward his jaw. For one horrible second, I think he’s dead.
“No,” I whisper, the word cracking open in my throat.
He shifts. Barely. A small movement of his chest.
