Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
He’s holding a large, leather duffel bag in one hand. My passport is in the other.
My stomach drops, and I jerk against my restraints.
Why does he have my passport? How did he even get it?
I keep it in my nightstand drawer, and I locked my apartment door when…
My heart sinks as the awful reality of my situation weighs on my chest like a lead weight. Of course, Dane is able to easily access my apartment; he’s the masked man. He’s already been able to break in far too easily.
His sensual lips press together in a grim line as he sets the bag down and rummages in it for a few seconds.
My head starts swinging back and forth in horrified denial when I see the syringe he’s holding.
“I had to get this from work,” he explains, calm and cool. “It won’t hurt.”
He sits beside me and uncaps the needle. I writhe in a frenzy—prey caught in a trap.
One hand settles at my nape, pinning me with a firm but careful grip.
“Just a little pinch,” he says, voice soft in that bedside manner.
I barely feel the needle slide into my neck, which only makes the horror of the drugs oozing into my system that much more potent. I shriek and jerk in his hold, but he might as well have a collar around my throat.
My limbs grow heavy, and darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision.
That featherlight touch on my hair again, petting me in a soothing rhythm.
“There’s no point fighting it, Abigail,” he admonishes. “The journey home will be much easier this way.”
Easier for who? I want to rail, but my tongue is thick against the gag.
He’s taking me somewhere, and I suspect that he doesn’t mean my apartment when he says “home”.
He has my passport.
We’re going…
He’s taking me…
I’m scared…
Even my disjointed thoughts float away, and his green eyes are the last thing I see before the darkness closes in.
2
DANE
Three Months Ago
The stunning woman at the bar has a quirky purple streak in her hair and a striking freckle on her right cheekbone. It’s large enough that it’s visible even at a distance. In my line of work, patients have asked me to remove smaller blemishes, but the longer I look at her, the more I think that it suits her. The mark makes her unique, and I admire the fact that she wears it with pride. She hasn’t made effort to conceal it with makeup.
Her posture is perfect, but her eyes stray to the floor even when she’s speaking to her friends. The dichotomy intrigues me. She’s shy, but her bearing indicates confidence.
A man approaches her where she’s swaying her hips near the bar. She can’t seem to fully stop dancing even while she’s waiting in the queue to order her drink.
The man steps into her personal space without invitation and leans in close to speak in her ear, presumably under the guise of being heard over the Latin music.
She stops swaying in her gentle dance, and her willowy body goes stiff.
The bastard doesn’t seem to notice her obvious discomfort.
I’m prowling toward him before I realize what I’m doing.
“Dane?” I hear my associate, Meadows, call after me, but I wave him off.
He’s known me long enough that he won’t be offended by the dismissal; he’s never gotten in the way of a conquest before.
I’m with her in seconds, and the creep is still far too close to her. My hand closes around his shoulder, and I drag him away from her. My grip is firm enough that the threat of violence is clear, but I don’t toss him to the ground like I want to. I’m not sure how she would react to that, and I don’t want to scare the woman who’s captured my full attention.
And I don’t want to get into a bar fight on my first night in Charleston. That wouldn’t reflect well on my new practice with Meadows. He has social connections in the area, and I can’t afford for word to get out that I’m dangerous.
The man who was harassing her tenses in my grip and whirls to face me. His fists clench, but before he can raise them, his eyes meet mine.
I don’t bother to hide the monster within. I let him see exactly how cold and unfeeling I am—hurting him means absolutely nothing to me. I could destroy him without a second thought.
One of the advantages of lacking the impulse for empathy.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” I say smoothly, looming over the smaller man. “You should go.”
It’s not a suggestion; it’s a threat.
He’s in between me and my pretty prey, and I won’t tolerate his presence for another second.
He’s smart enough to get the hell out of my way before I force him to move. He swallows hard, and his shoulders dip in submission as he slinks off onto the crowded dancefloor.