Page 15 of Tempting Fate

A sluggish feeling invades me in the next instant.

Twisting around to peer down at my arm with wobbly eyes, I find an empty syringe sticking out of my bicep.

That can’t be good.

My head grows fuzzier, and my eyesight dims.

My arms are bent behind my back, my shoulders flare with agony, then I’m rolled over and duct tape is slapped on my mouth. In the developing drug-induced darkness, I vaguely hear a man’s muffled whining. “Fuck me. Bitch broke my cheekbone—gave me a bloody nose. Fuck.”

When I turn to search for the source of the comment, I’m punched in the temple.

It feels like the impact knocks my brain loose.

Dizzy. Disorientated. Defeated.

I’m left with no choice but to embrace the burgeoning darkness.

God knows how long later, I surface from the blanket of black with a gasp. The moment my eyes open, my body is on alert. My brain warns me that I’m in trouble, even as it unhelpfully hides some of the events that led me to this situation from my consciousness.

I press my palm to my mouth to stop myself from warning my kidnappers that I’m awake. Sometimes the element of surprise is the difference between success and defeat. When I easily roll toward the edge of the mattress I’m laid out on, I realise that my hands are now unbound.

Sitting upright, I take stock of my aching body.

My face throbs. My head hurts. The pain in my chest makes it hard to breathe.

Other than that, I’m okay.

Sore, but okay.

The light hurts my eyes, so I blink slowly as I try to take stock of my surroundings.

Male clothes hang in the open walk-in-robe.

Three pairs of leather loafers, dark-brown, black, and tan, line the shoe shelf.

A navy robe is draped over the end of the bed.

Everything is muddled in my head from whatever they injected into me. I’m foggy. Dazed. I’m also cognisant of the oil-like dread spreading through my veins. Panic nips at its heels like an over-excited puppy. Dark premonition threatens to engulf them both.

I’ve been trapped before.

Hunted by a madman.

Come close to death.

I don’t know if I have the inner resolve to survive a second time.

That bleak thought galvanises me into action.

Struggling back to my feet, I teeter on my heels, then lean against the wooden bed frame to steady myself. As nausea takes hold and my head spins, I drag in a deep breath. The churning in my stomach picks up pace when the masculine tang of the cologne that lingers in the air infiltrates my nose.

It’s a familiar scent.

A reminder of the worst period of my life.

The man’s bedroom that I’m trapped in takes on an even sinister cast.

And that’s when I remember why I ran away from the van.

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