Page 104 of Roped

And why the fuck do I care what the world thinks of me if she is with me? If she looks at me as a man, her man, and not a monster. If she loves me in spite of all my flaws. If our life could be the way it’s been these past few days. Full of love and safety and Jesus, laughter. Something I’ve never had before, not even before the accident. And if she has to fight the world for me, I’ll fight beside her. Or better yet, if someone judges her for being with me, I’ll just have to destroy them first so she doesn’t have to.

I’ll be her man even if I’m a monster to the rest of the world.

Jesus Christ, you’re an idiot. She was right about that too.

I spring to my feet as the world spins around me. I jog over to Tulip, climb on, and take off. I get back to the barn and the first indication that something is wrong when I find the door ajar because I remember closing it. I run over and throw the door open only to find the space empty. Standing in the middle of the room, I look around, my breaths too fast and noisy, my gut rebelling. I tell myself she could be in the main house, but something tells me she isn’t.

Just as I’m about to turn around and go look anyway, I hear a ping coming from my back pocket. Dread, pure and bone-chilling, runs through me as I fish out the GPS device that sends me alerts if the perimeter is breached and tap it awake. My fingers almost crack the screen from how tight I’m holding it when I see her. Right there, in black-and-white, looking into the camera. Her gaze is defiant, rebellious. Like she won’t let anyone win, least of all, me.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, darlin’, what the—”

I’m turning around, ready to go back out there on Tulip, when I see the two men jump her. They come out of the woods wearing masks, and she panics. Holy Christ. My girl gets scared and she fights. She scratches the mask off one of those men before they carry her away.

No, no, no. Jesus, fuck.

But I will myself to breathe. To calm down. To not fucking tear everything apart. I can’t help her if I lose control. If I let emotions and violence guide me. The time for that will be later. For now, I pat my jeans for my phone but realize I don’t have it. I run to the dresser and throw it open. I grab the other burner I have and dial Arsen’s number.

He picks up on the second ring, but I don’t let him speak. “Find Hank Turner.”

“What, why?”

“He’s the missin’ piece.”

“I don’t—”

“Find him,” I growl. “Now. I’m goin’ after her.”

“What the fuck do you mean? Did she—”

“She’s been taken.”

And as she was willingly walking into danger, she gave me a clue I’ve been fucking missing all this time. It’s Hank Turner. He’s the monster, isn’t he? She told me. She kept telling me it was her father. She said she wouldn’t let him win. But I didn’t listen. Not until she looked into the camera, all defiant, and it clicked. Hank Turner has been behind every tragedy, both mine and hers. And my gut says he’s behind this too. Not his enemy; not anyone else.

But him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE LIGHT IN this room is glaring.

Or maybe it just feels that way after being holed up in the trunk of a car for hours. Which is how they transported me here, wherever this place is. My best guess is somewhere up in the mountains because the air is chilly and feels different when I breathe it in. Or maybe I’m just really, really afraid right now.

The room I’m in is small and windowless. Extremely cold with beige walls and a concrete floor. This reminds me of an interrogation room you’d see on TV and the one I was in back when I was looking for my best friend. God, that feels like ages ago, even though it’s only been a couple of months. I’m sitting in a chair—of course, tied up—and there’s a steel table in front of me. I twist my hands and immediately hiss when the rope cuts into my skin. Tears prickle my eyes, not because of the pain, but because it reminds me of him. Of his ropes, his knots. How when he seemed so rough, he was still so gentle with me. How every time he’d knot a rope around my hands, his fingers would linger on my skin. His thumb would rub over my pulse as if he wanted to see how he affected me. His fingers would thread with mine as if tying me with ropes wasn’t enough; he also wanted to hold my hands, capture them in his to make sure I never escaped. Make sure I stayed with him. Forever.

I slowly shake my head, trying to banish the thought. That is not what that was and I don’t have time to think about those things anymore. Not right now. Just then the door opens and I’m almost thankful for the interruption to my thoughts.

Almost.

Because in comes my father. Or rather, he’s wheeled in, complete with his breathing equipment and nose tubes, his blue eyes on me. For a few seconds, I only watch him get closer. My father’s been in a wheelchair for eight years now, ever since Arsen attacked him and almost choked him to death. You’d think his body would get frail, his shoulders would hunch and his legs that he never uses anymore would grow thin and weak. But my father looks just as formidable as he was back when he was completely healthy and able to walk.

I don’t know why. Maybe because he’s been such an intimidating figure in my life that no matter what happens to him, he’ll always be that in my eyes. Or maybe he really is that scary. Whatever it is, his silver hair looks just as polished as ever, his tie just as gleaming. His bespoke suit fits him well and underneath all of that, his shoulders are just as firm and strong as they were when he pushed my mother off a horse all those years ago. His face may look older than when I saw him last summer at the charity function he insisted I attend. But even marked with more lines and wrinkles and a couple of age spots here and there, he appears handsome and well groomed.

“You,” I say, my hands fisted behind my back.

Of course it’s him. Who else would it be? He’s been the only monster in my life. I just don’t understand why. Why would he want me dead? And why kidnap Radisson’s sister? Why pick Radisson to do his dirty work when I know he has various men at his disposal? So that’s what I ask him when he finally stops at the table, my voice low and almost calm-sounding, “Why?”

“For the money.”

The words don’t come from my father but from the man who wheeled him in. I’ve been so busy staring at my father, the man who brought me into this world and now wants to kill me, that I didn’t pay any attention to the one who walked into the room. He’s got dark eyes; that’s the first thing. The kind that seem truly dark, not just of color but also of spirit. He wears a matching dark suit with a red tie and looks to be in his fifties. His skin is tan, the kind you get from an expensive salon, and his hair is surfer blond with hints of silver. I remember every single one of the men my father put me in contact with, and this man isn’t one of them. When he smiles at me, his teeth gleam white and sharp and I press my back into the chair.