Page 8 of Marked By the Mob

There’s a service corridor visible near the stairwell, a potential exit if I can reach it. And avoid the guards stationed at the open door to this bedroom.

I file everything away and force myself to wait.

Hours pass. I shower, scrubbing away dried blood and the stench of the warehouse. I find clothes in the closet that fit well enough.

Jeans.

A fitted black sweater.

Boots that are sturdy and broken in, like someone planned for this. Which of course, they did. Why else would they go to a bride auction if they weren’t expecting to bring back a woman?

By the time the house falls silent, it’s well past midnight. I move to the door and listen.

Nothing. No footsteps. No voices.

Just the low hum of expensive climate control and distant security systems.

I slip into the hallway and head for the service corridor I spotted earlier.

The first checkpoint is easy. A single guard is stationed near the kitchen entrance, distracted by his phone.

I wait until he turns away then move past him like a shadow. Years of training make my footsteps silent, my breathing controlled.

The second checkpoint is harder. Two guards, both alert, are positioned near a side exit that leads to the grounds. I study them for a full minute, watching their patterns, waiting for the moment when both look away simultaneously.

The moment I’ve been waiting for comes and I’m through the door and into the night before either of them realizes I was there.

The grounds are massive, but I’ve already memorized the layout from the drive in.

I keep to the shadows, avoiding floodlights and camera angles. My heart pounds, but my hands are steady. I’ve trained for this kind of situation.

I’m halfway to the outer wall when a figure steps out of the darkness ahead of me.

The blond man.

He stands with his hands in his pockets, completely relaxed, like he’s been waiting for me. In the moonlight, his pale eyes seem almost luminous.

“Impressive,” he says quietly. “You made it farther than I expected.”

I don’t hesitate and attack him. My fist drives toward his face, but he blocks it effortlessly and sidesteps. I spin, aiming a kick at his ribs, but he catches my leg and forces me back. I recover quickly, pressing forward with a combination of strikes designed to overwhelm and disorient.

He counters every single one. The asshole.

We move through the darkness like dancers, brutal and precise. He’s faster than he looks, stronger than I anticipated.

But I’m desperate, and desperation makes me vicious. I manage to land a solid hit to his jaw that snaps his head to the side.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he moves in close, catching both my wrists and spinning me around. My back slams against the cold stone wall of a nearby building, and suddenly he’s pressed against me, his body pinning mine in place. I struggle, but his grip is iron. His breath is warm against my ear.

“You were never going to escape,” he says quietly. “Not tonight.”

“Let me go,” I snarl, twisting against him.

“No.”

The single word is absolute. Final. Something about the way he says it, the certainty in his voice, makes heat flare through me that has nothing to do with anger.