Page 7 of Overcast

I can sense the static vibe off the person’s body as a panic attack builds up in my chest.

I chastise myself for never watching any shows about how to escape a situation like this. There are plenty of crime shows and documentaries of people getting abducted and how they escaped. The ones where women who have survived explain all the details.

Myself—I have no clue what to do right now.

Besides jumping out of this abandoned building, it’s all that comes to mind. I guess I’m an easier target than I thought because I practically followed the man who jerked me off the couch to go outside.

Meaty fingers suddenly wrap roughly around my jaw before pressing into my cheeks. The pressure makes my jaw open in response as my face is craned towards my captor.

But I don’t crack my eyes open, breathing through my mouth with a high-pitched screech brimming over my vocal cords.

“Who hired the hit on Reagan Lockwood?” His voice—it’s warm, delicious.

Deep.

Grave.

I can feel his words and warm exhale hit my skin, maybe because I’m so cold.

It causes not only a violent shudder to rack throughout my body, but I get the sense that this isn’t a hostage situation after all.

“Open your fucking eyes,” he growls, the pads of his fingertips driving deeper into my gums.

I immediately listen because—well, I’m as compliant as a law-abiding citizen, and he’s the voice from outside the trunk.

The brute who lifted and planted me over his shoulder.

The edge of his stubble catches my cheek, releasing a sharp gasp from my lips against his ear. The hard lines displayed on the side of his face foretell that he’s upset—livid.

If the hostility in his voice didn’t hint to it, his facial features surely do.

“Who?”

I swallow off my “what?” attempting to pull myself out of his clutches, but he clings firmly to my face, keeping me where he wants me.

I don’t remember the name before I catch sharp dark eyes boring into my soul. The moonlight casts shadows over the angles and lines of his face, but I notice the tick in his jaw. He responds with more pressure, setting a fresh wave of fear coursing through my veins.

I don’t feel the pain. I’m too locked into that one emotion. It causes everything else to take a backseat.

“I don’t enjoy repeating myself, sweetheart,” he spits out. “And I’m also not the one you want to play with.”

“I—I...don’t kno—” My baggy t-shirt is gripped into a ball, yanking me from the beam I’m resting on, just to crash right back into it.

The back of my skull is the collateral damage, slamming against the hard surface to where I start seeing colored specks of black and blue in my vision.

I rapidly blink, trying to deplete them so I can focus when a shiny glint catches my eye.

A knife.

A really long and jagged-edged knife.

“You wanna scream?” he taunts, pressing his hard chest into mine. “Feel free...it makes my dick hard.” My chest convulses against him. Ideas abruptly come to the forefront of my brain.

He could violate me, and I don’t think anyone would hear me.

Actually, I’d bet on it.

I’m not sure what kind of hidden mark I have written on my forehead, but only men see it, and they always believe they can touch me without asking.

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