Page 14 of Hero's Heart

“You have to let me out of here. If you do, I’ll make sure my father rewards you. Hello? Hello? Is anyone listening to me?”

Sloane forced her eyes open past the pounding in her skull to see Marissa on the opposite side of the room, then immediately closed them again. Her tongue snaked out, desperately trying to wet her chapped lips, but there didn’t seem to be any saliva available in her mouth.

Was Marissa talking to her? Why was she facing the other way?

Had Sloane drunk too much? She couldn’t remember drinking anything but water. Had the girls slipped something into it? Her throat was so dry.

This was a hangover from hell, in every possible way, especially Marissa’s presence. Wait, no. This wasn’t a hangover. This was jet lag. That was it.

“Helloooo. Seriously, you’re not going to answer me?!” Marissa’s agitated voice echoed in the room again, sending fresh shards of pain through Sloane.

She raised her hand to cradle her head—only it didn’t move. She tried the other but had the same problem.

Must’ve got tangled in the sheets. She tried to kick them off with her feet, but her ankles were wrapped tight too.

Finally, she realized what was going on. She wasn’t in a bed; she was in a chair. And she was restrained.

Instinct had her heart racing as she tried to get free. She kicked and shoved, but whatever had her trapped wasn’t budging.

“Yeah, that’s not going to do anything,” Marissa said in that irritated tone she saved just for Sloane.

Sloane cracked her eyes open again, trying to take in more, then immediately wished she hadn’t. The unfamiliar room was lit by bright bulbs that made her eyes ache, but it was the room itself that had Sloane’s mind whirling.

This wasn’t the expensive apartment they’d rented in Paris, and it definitely wasn’t one of Marissa’s friends’ suites either. Sloane moved her gaze down her own body, terror stealing her breath when she saw her wrists and ankles were bound to the chair.

She glanced over to find Marissa in the same predicament, and she remembered. Pierre. The van. Something knocking her unconscious.

They’d been abducted.

Her breaths came faster, her chest working hard under her dress. Who knew how long she’d been asleep. What if they’d…

Stop. Check your body. You’ll know if anything happened.

Sloane forced a slow breath in and out, then another until she could focus on something other than the panic. Her chin dropped, and she let it, using the momentum to peer over her body.

That damn dress was still on, as were her shoes. There was some dirt here and there and she felt utterly disgusting, but beyond the pounding in her head, nothing ached or hurt.

So, the worst hadn’t happened.

“What’s going on?” Her voice was raspy, and every word hurt on the way out. She would kill for some water.

“Really? You don’t remember what you’ve done?”

Sloane closed her eyes and thought back. She remembered the club, talking to Pierre—if that was really his name—and how he’d left her for Marissa. The last clear memory she had was shoving out the back door to bring her sister’s clutch and then… The van. The men.

“Don’t go back to sleep. We have to get out of this mess,” Marissa snapped.

“What’s the plan?”

“How should I know? You got us into this. Get us out of it.”

The entitlement was normal for Marissa, but Sloane was fighting a headache and the terror of being somewhere she had no clue how to leave. She’d woken up tied to a freaking chair, and now she was getting blamed.

Her normally low temper flared red-hot. “How is thismyfault? You’re the one who went outside with Pierre.”

“You should’ve told me that guy was bad news!”

“He was flirting with me then immediately jumped to you. Why wouldn’t you think he was bad news?”

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