Page 3 of Balthazar's Fire

Her heart raced at the unanswered question, her hands struggling futilely against her binds as she grappled for composure.

Don’t panic. Closing her eyes, she forced her breath to slow. Think. How do I get out of here?

“Balthazar’s coming,” she whispered, the words alone enough to conjure the image of her handsome beau to her mind.

But that was ridiculous. Balthazar wasn’t her man. They barely knew each other, having had one date together before the insidious Oliver Monroe had ripped their growing chemistry to pieces.

Balthazar.

Cherie hoped he was all right, but she could still see him sprawled out on the deck in agony—attacked by Oliver—the man who had transformed into a two-headed beast right before her eyes.

That can’t be right. She swallowed at the grotesque memory. I must have imagined it.

But Cherie hadn’t invented the monster. She knew she hadn’t. She could still smell its foul breath and feel the ruthless grip of its claws as it collected her and took her down the mountain. A terrified shiver raced along her backbone. At some point during the journey, she must have passed out with terror, because she didn’t remember arriving in whatever dark pit he had her holed up in, but she hadn’t made the beast up. Nothing so grim existed in her imagination.

Up until yesterday, Oliver Monroe had been nothing but her rude and grumpy boss. Yes, he treated her badly, and a combination of her low self-esteem and low income had compelled her to stay in his employment, but she’d never envisioned that the man who paid her crap salary would be able to shift into the hideous creature. Hell, she hadn’t even believed that such things existed.

Balthazar!

Concentrating on his face, Cherie called his name in her head, squeezing her eyes shut as she focused on him. She’d managed to reach out to him earlier using this method, or at least she thought she had, but maybe that was all part of the madness that seemed to have seeped into her life since Monroe had fired her.

The mountain date with Balthazar had been something special, but it had ended in disaster. Was she honestly now expecting the same man who’d helicoptered her to the isolated peak and gotten himself injured, to save her? That was truly ludicrous.

“That’s not fair,” she murmured. “Balthazar did his best. He did everything he could…”

But it hadn’t been enough. Oliver had been waiting, and as soon as Balthazar was out for the count, he’d snatched her away. Eyes fluttering open, she glanced around the gloom again.

I can’t put my faith in Balthazar.

Not because she didn’t want to, or because she lacked belief in the tall, dark stranger who’d waltzed into Oliver’s office and sent her pulse racing. She trusted that it had been his voice in her head when she’d awoken, but whether or not she’d planted it there herself to give her courage, she wasn’t sure.

I have to be logical.

She needed to escape, and fast. Oliver had left after providing her with a much-needed glass of water, but he’d already made his intentions clear, and even the drink had been excruciating to endure. The way he’d refused to untie her and let her use her hands, the way he’d brushed his palm over the mounds of her breasts as he slowly tipped the liquid past her lips—it was so dehumanizing. Her skin goosed in disgust as she recalled the evil gleam in his eyes. He clearly meant to do her harm and she couldn’t just sit there and wait to play the victim. Cherie had played that role for too long in his office.

I have to get myself out of here.

But how?

She considered calling out for help in the vain hope that someone in the building wasn’t a self-obsessed narcissist, but fear squeezed her throat closed, an echo of Oliver’s warning pinballing around her head.

‘If you scream, baby, then I’ll find something useful for that mouth to do.’

Tears pricked in her eyes at the thought of all the vile things Oliver might have in mind. She didn’t want to encourage a single one. She’d never been attracted to the man, not even when she’d first worked for him. Oliver had always exuded the essence of a spoiled rich boy—the least alluring aroma in the world. Cherie didn’t want him and she never would. The disturbing thing was, until she’d told him to shove his job up his ass and walked away, he’d never shown any interest in her, either.

Exhaling, she studied the shelving erected on either side of the basement as best she could in the half light. There was nothing obvious she could use to help her pursuit and without the help of her hands, there was only so much she could achieve. Frustration simmered inside her, sending the first tear sliding down her cheek.

I can’t give up! I don’t belong to Oliver bloody Monroe.

As if the villain had read her mind, the sound of footsteps started overhead, the noise growing louder on the steps.

Shit, Oliver’s coming back.

Brow creasing, she stared into the dark abyss, her heart accelerating as she tried to decide how to manage whatever came next, but however hard she tried, it was impossible to quell the suffocating panic clawing its way to her throat. Tied up in the dark, she was Oliver’s for the taking—bound to play whatever role he’d cast for her.

Balthazar!

She’d wanted to say the word aloud, but terror kept it trapped inside.

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