Page 5 of Striker

My limbs feel weighed down, thick, my head heavy, a dull ache pounding between my temples like I have a terrible hangover. I force myself to stay still and take a minute to assess the situation once I get my breathing under control.

“Cora,” I whisper.

Nothing.

Where is Cora?

Nausea ripples in my belly and I turn my face, pressing my head to the floor to calm it.

They took us. The men we fucked last night—wait. How long has it been? The way my bladder screams for release tells me it’s been many hours, but I don’t think it’s been longer than that. Right? I’d have pissed myself if I had been out any longer.

The memory of a pinch of pain—a needle in my arm—as Striker’s hard command to remain still floods my mind.

They drugged me.

Us.

Cora? Where the fuck is Cora? Where the fuck amI?

I swallow the panic rising in my throat, gritting my teeth, forcing the scream to stay in my mouth. Panicking won’t give me answers, and I need answers. I refuse to succumb to the fear clawing in my head.

Take a breath. Another. Be still and listen. Assess before you react.

My father’s voice echoes in my mind, and I breathe deeply, trying to slow the rising fear. When I have myself in control, I remain still and listen.

Other than my rapid heartbeat and my breathing, I hear nothing. Absolutely nothing. I only know I’m indoors and not outside because of the hard, solid floor underneath me. The air is still. No rustling of leaves, no sounds of animals.

Wait. There is a sound. Distant. The faint crashing of waves against a shore breaks the quiet. I’m near water. An ocean.

That means I’m at least close to home.

Without moving too much, I test the bonds when I remember the slick grating sound and the cutting pain as the zip tie they used to keep me from thrashing around tightened on my wrists. There’s no way I can break them.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to piece together the last few moments before they drugged me. I remember the sound of van doors opening, then being slammed shut. The rattle of containers as the vehicle lurched forward. A horn honking and someone outside the van cursing. The last thing I remember was hearing Cora’s quiet cries before I felt the pinch in my arm. Then nothing.

Until right now.

My shoulder aches, like I’ve been lying in one position for too long. How long?

Why?

I shift slightly, but my body is still sluggish from whatever they injected me with. Adjusting my weight, I use my fingers to feel the floor. It’s rough, lined with thin groves like a wood floor, but worn, not polished. I inhale deeply through my nose, but all I can detect is a faint musty scent that tells me little. It doesn’t smell dank, or like mildew, so that means I’m some place dry. That at least I know. Basements are damp so at least I’m not underground.

Which would be terrible. But that’s what happens when people are kidnapped.

My father’s words fill my head.

Did he send you?

He’s doing this.

He’s come to collect.

My stomach sours.

And I’m here for revenge.

That was the last thing Reaper said before Striker covered my head and drug me away. That simple statement confirms my fears. Someone is using Cora and me to collect on a debt.

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