Page 38 of Gilded Princess

MADDIE

The smell of sulfur and rotten garbage assaults my nose, wrenching me into consciousness. My body jerks, and panic douses me like a waterfall, overwhelming and oppressive.

My head throbs in time with my racing heartbeat, and something warm oozes down the side of my face. Fear freezes my lungs when I realize I can’t move my arms or legs. I’m tied to a chair.

Instincts kick in and I can’t hold back the yell. It’s a cry of fear—and it does nothing to expel some of this terror blanketing my nerves.

I quickly realize my mistake. There’s a piece of fabric in my mouth, acting as a gag of sorts. And for all my yelling, it only pushes more fabric into my mouth, causing me to heave.

I choke on the fabric and the panic, vomit climbing up my throat. I swallow reflexively, breathing through my nose and blinking my eyes to clear the tears that gather.

“If you choke to death on your own vomit before they arrive, you’ll miss out on all the fun.”

I flinch at the voice coming from behind me, my shoulders hunching toward my ears.

“It’s been brought to my attention that you were not the intended target.”

I wait for this mystery man to continue his statement, to follow it up with something, but he never does.

As my heart races, I try to breathe through my nose and assess the situation. I feel so ill-prepared and naïve.

A few minutes go by, and through the throbbing of my head and my darkening vision, I try to figure out where I am and how the hell I’m going to get out of here.

Think, Maddie. I wrack my brain, calling on all those hours spent watching crime documentaries and thrillers that Mary loves so much.

I’m definitely in a warehouse of some kind, but from the looks of the rundown room, it’s an abandoned one. Which means I could be anywhere, really.

A pair of mourning doves coos somewhere nearby, and I can’t stop the foreboding from tiptoeing down my spine.

Exposed metal and raw wooden beams run across the ceiling, giving me another detail. I’d guess this is an old warehouse, they don’t use those materials anymore. And the only reason I even know that is because I overheard some big construction tycoons bemoaning the available materials on the market at an event a few months ago.

Straining my ears, I try to figure out where my kidnapper is behind me. Even though his voice is different from the man who forced me into the van, there’s no doubt that he’s the mastermind behind this little kidnapping—

And oh my god, how am I so calmly thinking about my fucking kidnapping?!

Lainey always did say that I’m absurdly organized and that I can compartmentalize things like no one she’s ever seen before. Yeah, let’s go with that.

I hear a shuffle to my right, and I crane my neck to get a glimpse of him. I war with myself on what to do next.

I have no idea who he is or what he wants. Every movie and TV show and news report tells us that your chance of survival goes down dramatically if you get moved to a secondary location—and exponentially if you see your attacker’s face.

I can’t stop the need coursing within me to see his face though. To put an image to the monster who will no doubt haunt my dreams for days, weeks, months to come.

With my mind made up, I start rocking my body from side to side. The metal legs scrape against the cement floor, this screeching noise that silences the mourning doves instantly.

“Ah, listen, it’s not personal, alright? But it’d be so much easier if you weren’t awake.” In a move too swift for me to follow, he steps in front of me, arm raised up by his shoulder. I raise my gaze to meet his for a split second before he backhands me hard enough to send me crashing to the floor.

I don’t know what surprised me more, the feeling of my face meeting concrete, or meeting the red-eyed gaze of the man who hit me.

As my vision fades dark around the edges, I find no peace in the quiet darkness of my mind. Flashes of images that sum up my life fly through my mind.

Regret tastes bitter on the back of my tongue as my lashes flutter closed.

* * *

Something jabs my arm, rousing me. Something cold and hard rubs against my wrist uncomfortably, and I hear voices, but they sound distorted, muffled like they’re underwater.

Consciousness is an odd idea to wrap my mind around. It arrives both swiftly and slowly. It feels like my mind is wading through molasses, but my nerve endings are snapping and popping, sending messages to my brain to wake up, wake up, wake up.

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