Page 54 of Captured Heart

I kick harder, my heels slamming into his shins, but he doesn’t let go.

The cold night air bites at my skin as he carries me out the door and toward the black van. I’m still screeching, but virtually no sound escapes past his fingers. My eyes dart around wildly, searching for someone—anyone—who can help.

But the street is dark, empty.

I fight harder, tears stinging my eyes, but it’s no use.

The van door slides open, and I’m shoved inside.

A bag is immediately placed over my head, and it smells faintly of damp fabric and mildew. It clings to my face, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. My heart hammers in my chest, drowning out the faint hum of the van’s engine.

My hands are tightly handcuffed, the cold metal digging into my wrists, biting my skin with every bump in the road. I sit completely still, my shoulders aching from the awkward position they’ve bound me in. Every jolt and swerve rattles through me, a constant reminder that I’m at their mercy.

Where are they taking me? What do they want?

My mind spins in frantic circles, trying to piece together answers that don’t exist. I force myself to focus on the small details. The texture of the seat beneath me. The faint scent of smoke mixed with leather. Anything to keep from drowning in the panic gripping my throat.

“This bitch broke my fucking nose!” someone shouts. The words come out thick, like his mouth is full of cotton.

“Well, you deserved it,” another voice snaps. “You shouldn’t have put your fucking hands on her. Touch her again, and you’ll have me to deal with.”

It’s a deep, firm tone, but sort of muffled by the sound of the engine, so I assume it’s coming from the front of the van.

A few minutes later, it lurches to a stop, throwing me forward slightly. Strong hands grip my arms, hauling me out of the seat and into the cold night air. My bare feet touch the rough concrete, sending a chill racing up my legs.

I stumble as they drag me forward, the bag still over my head. Each step feels wobbly, the darkness disorienting me. The sound of my captors’ boots echoes off unseen walls, and the silence around us presses down like a weight.

The creak of a heavy metal door sends another jolt of panic through me. I have no idea where they’ve taken me or how I could get back home.

My breath quickens, and I force myself to focus on my footing as they pull me inside. The air shifts. It’s colder here, stale, and carries the faint scent of oil and rust.

“Stop,” one of them says, and they wrench me to a halt.

“What do you want us to do with her, Vic?”

The voice that responds is low and smooth. An unsettling chill prickles over my skin. “Nothing yet. Take off the bag.”

The fabric is yanked from my head, and the sudden brightness makes me wince. My vision adjusts slowly, revealingthe dingy room around me. Gray, cracked concrete walls. A single overhead bulb casting harsh shadows.

And then my eyes lock onto his.

Stormy gray, cold as winter. Alex.

The air freezes in my lungs.

No. No, no, no.

My mind races, trying to reconcile the man who gently kissed my forehead two nights ago with the one standing here now. I’ve been trying to do this reconciliation since I found out he was manipulating me. But seeing him here adds a hundred new layers to his betrayal. His face gives nothing away. I see no remorse, no regret. His expression is unreadable, the way it always is, and I start to wonder how I ever thought we were making a connection when he’s been this way the entire time.

He turns away, and my gaze darts to the man addressing him.

I’m sure I’ve seen him before. At a banquet or a charity event, maybe? And then it clicks. Victor Salazar. He’s one of my dad’s clients. What does he want with me?

He’s a behemoth of a man, his well-tailored suit cut perfectly to fit his tall, wide frame. There’s an unsettling sharpness to him, something I find so intimidating. His dark eyes scan me with a calm intensity that feels more predatory than curious.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” Victor says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “After all that talk about not wanting to do the dirty work, here you are. What are you doing here, Johnny?”

The skinny one holding my arm chuckles. “Turner wants the rest of his cut.”

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