Page 40 of Hunted Vengeance

The man walks around the front of the car before he opens the back door. I watch as blonde hair appears. I can’t see her front, but I don’t need to. Her small stature is all I need to see to know that it is my wife.

My woman.

Mine.

My entire body jerks, urgently begging me to go to her. I know where she belongs, and it’s with me, at my side. One step behind me so that I can always protect her. So that I can stand between her and danger.

My Colette.

Theron reaches over, curling his fingers around my forearm, and squeezes it. “Don’t do anything stupid… yet.”

“Yet?” I ask, turning my head slightly and tearing my gaze away from Colette as she disappears inside the church.

Theron snorts. “Yet,” he repeats. “This whole plan is stupid. Going into a church, surrounded by her father’s men and an unknown adversary along with his whole crew.”

“He’s not an adversary,” I snap. Theron’s lips twitch into a smirk, but he doesn’t argue with me. “Whoever he is, he is not my enemy. Therefore, he’s not an adversary. She is my woman.”

“Well then,” Theron chuckles. “The whole plan is still stupid because we’re going in five to probably a hundred.”

I can’t deny that shit. Not at all. But I’ve never been smart. Shrugging, I reach into my shoulder holster and pull out one of my guns. He laughs, shaking his head, then releases my arm and pulls out a gun from his holster.

“We wait until we get the go-ahead from Boden.”

“He better fucking hurry,” I grunt.

“Yeah.”

COLETTE

The babysitter guidesme from the parking lot into the back of the church. I’m not sure why this wedding is even happening in a church. I’m divorced. I don’t care what my father filed and what he talked to the priest about. I was definitely married to Merrick. Happily, too.

I’m led into a room quietly, and the door is closed behind me. But I’m not alone. Looking around, my eyes widen at the sight of four women setting up tables with hair and makeup tools and supplies.

I don’t move into the room. I’m not sure where I’m supposed to go or what I’m supposed to do. So I stand where I am, wishing I could vanish into thin air. I’m not sure how long I stay there, silently watching them chatter and move around the room. Then one of the women stops, turns her head, and her eyes widen.

“Oh my gosh, you’re the bride,” she exclaims.

Staring at her, I blink a few times and nod once. I don’t know what else to do or say. I don’t know these women. I take a tentative step toward them, but then I see, one by one, their lips parting as their expressions shift into ones of horror.

I don’t know what I look like, but I know I’ve lost weight. I have to have. I’ve only been given food once a day. And I was already on the thinner side. My hair is probably a mess, too. I washed it and combed it out, but it’s air-dried. I’m also not wearing makeup.

But I haven’t seen my reflection since I was taken. I refused to look at myself in the small mirror that was in the cabin’s bathroom. I didn’t want to see what I had become, and I’m glad for it, but judging by the way these women are looking at me, I should have probably looked.

One takes a tentative step forward, then another, almost as if she’s approaching a scared animal. Which, to be fair, is exactly what I feel like right now, so she’s not all wrong. Dipping my chin, I look down at my feet, then wince because I didn’t realize that I was barefooted.

I open my mouth as I start to apologize for my appearance, but I don’t get any words out. Instead, instantly, I’m surrounded by all four women. They wrap their arms around me and lead me toward a chair that faces a mirror.

“We’ll take care of you,” one of them says.

I don’t know which one it is because my gaze lands on my reflection, and I stare at myself in horror. Not only have I clearly lost weight, but my face is thinner, with a harsh jawline and sunken eyes. I’ve got purple bruises beneath my eyes, and my hair isn’t even worth speaking about because it’s a frizzy mess.

But that isn’t what is scary. All of those things are concerning, but what’s really terrifying is the rash around my neck where the collar has been for the past several weeks. I press my lips together, trying not to cry, but mostly so that I don’t scream. I lift my hand to my throat, and my fingers gently touch the irritated skin.

“We can try and cover it,” one of the women whispers.

“Don’t,” I state. “Let them all see it.”

Every single one of them.

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