Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
I half-expect to open my eyes now and wake up back in my bed, in my apartment. Remembering the sensation of a damp cloth on my face and the force of an arm encircling my chest, dragging me back on the street, I conclude I didn’t make it.
So much for my escape.
The luxurious softness of silk sheets is the first thing I notice, even before my eyes fully open. I can’t afford sheets like this, not yet anyway. I open my eyes slowly, giving space for the foggy, aching feeling in my head to subside a bit before attempting to sit up in bed.
The room all around me is foreign and stunning. In front of me, floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Vegas Strip. I must be at least a dozen floors or more above the city. And from the looks of the room that I’m in, this is a very expensive place.
On the bed beside me, there’s a tray with a full glass of water and a bowl of freshly cut fruit. If I didn’t know better, I’d be tempted to think that this is all still a dream. But then the nightmare of what actually happened last night overrides my senses, and I panic.
I jump up from the bed, still reeling with fear and adrenaline, and examine my body for harm or worse. As far as I can tell, I’m completely fine. Scratch that—my body is completely fine, but my head is spinning, and my emotions are spiraling. My bun from the performance holds, though a few chestnut curls have escaped. I’m still in my theatre outfit. After a quick glance around to see that there’s no one in here with me, I go to the door and try to open it. I’m surprised when the handle turns easily and prematurely relieved—until I meet with the same eyes that locked with mine last night backstage.
“Good morning, Isla,” the man says as he steps inside the room, urging my body to back up as his fills the doorway with a lean but powerful build.
At any other time, such a man—tall, handsome, and with piercing steel-blue eyes that look straight through me—might take my breath away. But this is the same man that I just saw murder someone.
His voice is calm and cool, and his presence is commanding. A blend of fear and curiosity stemming from my uncertainty. “Who are you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady and exude a confidence that I don’t feel. “Why am I here?”
He smiles, and I stare at his angular jawline as power drips from his momentary silence. I wonder if I’m going to be his next kill and resist the urge to tremble, because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid. I read something once about predators in the wild being able to smell fear.
“You saw something that you shouldn’t have seen,” he says coldly as he takes a step closer toward me. “And now you’re mine until I decide what to do with you.”
His assertion of control instantly triggers a response within me, not unlike the one I was just having in my dream before waking up here. I’m terrified, possibly facing death, yet I refuse to surrender. “People will be looking for me,” I assert. “Madame Durant will see my dance bag and she’ll wonder where I—”
“That dance bag?” He asks as he points toward a chair in the corner of the room.
I turn to look and see not only my dance bag but also my tutu draped over the arm of the chair.
“No need to fret. My men have made sure that your absence is a quiet one. A dancer resting, post-performance, possible overexertion, avoids suspicion.”
“And then?” I stick my chin out at him. “That won’t last forever. I have rehearsals. My instructor will know that I’ve gone missing. So, you’re going to either have to release me or—”
I don’t finish that sentence because I don’t want to say the words aloud.
“Kill you?”
He reaches out his hand, and I worry for a second that he’s going to wrap his fingers around my neck. Instead, he reaches up and pulls the hairpins from my bun.
My hair falls against my shoulders, and I stand motionless, afraid to move in any one direction as I study him.
There’s a scar under his collarbone, one that looks like it was once deep and brutal, and the hint of a tattoo that peeks out from the cuff of his black suit. His eyes are intense and calculating—he’s dangerous, murderous, as evidenced by the act he committed last night. But there’s something else too. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but it hints at being a man who has more scars than just the kind you can see with your eyes.