Page 72 of Unholy Obsession

But I don’t get far.

Before I make it three steps, two guys in leather jackets pop out of nowhere. One grabs my left arm, while the other snatches my right.

I scream bloody fucking murder, thrashing and kicking wildly, landing a solid heel to someone’s shin.

Leather Jacket #1 grunts but doesn’t let go.

“Calm down,” he snaps.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want me to be polite while you’re kidnapping me?” I snarl, twisting and kicking some more.

But they’re strong. Too strong.

“HELP!” I scream dramatically because why not go full damsel when you’re being literally manhandled? Then I remember from self-defense training at the shelter to scream “fire,” not “help,” because people are nosy about fires but conveniently deaf about calls for help.

“FI—” is all I get out before a gloved hand slaps over my mouth, muffling the rest.

Mistake.

I bite down.Hard. I mean hard-hard. Like, “I hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shot” hard.

The guy yelps, yanking his hand back like I’m rabid—which, to be fair, isn’t entirely inaccurate. Fueled by pure rage and spite, I start kicking, aiming for shins, knees, or anywhere soft enough to cause maximum damage.

The back of my brain registers that the curses flying out of their mouths come with British accents. Fancy that. I’m being assaulted by the Spice Boys.

I’m still in full feral-cat mode when another man appears out of nowhere. He’s limping heavily with a gold-topped cane and lifts his other hand like he’s the goddamn king, all regal authority.

“Stop. Don’t hurt her.” His voice is smooth and polished with the kind of accent that’s less London-street and more I-own-an-obscene-number-of-horses. “I only want to chat.”

Chat?Oh, is that what we’re calling kidnapping these days?

The distraction is enough for me to pause mid-kick and squint at the new guy. He’s older—mid-to-late sixties, I’d guess—dressed like he walked straight out of an overpriced men’s catalog. Tailored suit, polished shoes, not a hair out of place. But the fucker is pale and gaunt and giving real consumption-chic.

“What the fuck do you want?” I spit, still twisting like I’m auditioning for the world’s angriest interpretive dance.

He steps closer, leaning calmly on his cane like this is a TED Talk and not, you know, an abduction.

“My son,” he says smoothly. “Bane.”

Wait. WHAT? It’s like someone yanked the emergency brake in my brain.

Bane?

I freeze for half a second, but it’s enough. I snap back to reality with a growl, whipping my head toward the guy gripping my right arm.

“LET. ME. GO!” I snarl, punctuating each word with another vicious kick.

When words don’t work, I go primal—I bend down and bite him. Again. On the forearm this time. I’m an equal opportunity biter.

The brute roars, yanking his arm back. His other hand shoots up like he’s about to clock me.

But Mr. Fancy Suit raises a hand, his voice cool as ice. “That’s enough, Billy.”

Billy—because, of course, his name is Billy—growls but steps back. His buddy releases me, too. But when I try to make a break for it, Billy grabs me around the waist like I’m a particularly difficult suitcase. He lifts me off the ground, carries me three steps, and unceremoniously drops me right in front of Bane’s father.

I let out a guttural scream—not words, just pure rage-fueled noise—and glare up at the smug bastard.

“What the FUCK is this?!” I snarl, my voice echoing off the nearby buildings.

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