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Heart racing slightly slower now, I open my eyes again and study the room once more. There really isn’t much in the way of something I can use as a weapon, but if they had meant to kill me, wouldn’t I be dead already?

And if they don’t mean to kill me yet, what are their plans with me?

Footsteps outside have me limping back for the bed. I slip beneath the covers, toss my glasses to the side, and close my eyes.

A lock clicks, and the door is pushed open.

While I don’t risk opening my eyes to see who is there, I can feel the presence like a heaviness weighing me down.

“She’s still unconscious,” a deep voice says. “Got it.” A large hand grips my shoulder and shakes. “Wake up,” the man orders.

I remain as still as I can.

“Wake up, or I’ll drag you out of this bed,” he growls.

I open my eyes to see a shadow looming over me.

“That’s what I thought. Get up. Someone wants to talk to you.” He steps back, so I feel for my glasses and slip them on.

The man standing in front of me has a hard expression, his dark gaze unwavering as he glares back at me.

I swing my legs over the edge, then try to apply pressure to my ankle. I crumple, and the man catches me by the arm, his grip hard and unyielding. He says nothing as he half-drags me over toward the door, then down a bright hallway.

The white carpet beneath my feet is unstained, and the walls are painted a light grey that—if not for my current predicament—might be calming.

At the end of the hallway, an elderly woman glances up from what she was dusting. Her eyes go wide, and her face pales. “Does she need medical aid?” she demands as she crosses over toward us.

“No. Mind your business, old woman,” the man snaps.

She stops in her tracks.

Help me, please, I mouth to her as I pass. She merely turns away and continues dusting as if she didn’t see me.

How can this be happening?

A door at the end of the hall is open, and the man pulls me in there. The pain in my ankle is so significant at this point that it takes every bit of strength I have not to cry. But I refuse to let these men see my tears.

Not when they have already taken so much from me.

Phillip.

My freedom.

Ryker. No. I take a deep breath. I will not believe he is dead. Presley woke up and saved him. That’s the truth I am clinging to.

He shoves me down into a leather-backed chair in front of a mahogany desk. There’s no one seated on the other side yet, so I take a moment to scan the room. It’s lined with bookshelves holding an assortment of books and various knick-knacks. Except, instead of fancy decorations like one might expect in a wealthy man’s study, they all appear to be handmade by children.

Paper mache hand turkeys, various clay creations, even some artwork propped up on little stands.

This is Phillip’s study. Knowing that does bring tears to my eyes, but I quickly blink them away.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting.” A familiar voice says from behind me as a man steps into my view.

The memory of that night at Pine Meadow assaults me as I find myself staring into the eyes of the man who forced my grandfather to take a handful of pills.

He’s wearing a dark suit with a bright purple tie, and his salt-and-pepper hair is flawlessly styled. His blue eyes are cold and unfeeling as they stare back at me, despite the arrogant grin on his face.

I glare at him, but I don’t say a word.