Page 54 of Taking What's Mine

Trey chuckles, coming to stand behind Vera. “Thought we’d skip the small talk, seeing as you and Lincoln are obviously not here just for fun.”

My stomach plummets. They know. They’ve known all along. Desperate thoughts race through my mind: I could scream, try to fight my way out. But the two men behind Morris are built like tanks, and the locked door is behind them. My odds look grim.

My hand clenches at my side. “What do you want?” I snap, struggling to keep my voice steady.

Morris feigns a concerned look. “Why, to talk, of course,” he says, stepping closer. His cologne is overpowering—woodsy and sharp. “But there’s someone else who’s… quite excited to have a conversation with you.” He smirks, exchanging a glance with Vera and Trey. “Thinks you owe him an explanation.”

A chill scuttles across my skin. Someone else? “Lazarus Delgado,” the name falls from my lips like acid. I lunge forward, trying to push past them, but the two bodyguards block me easily. One of them grabs my arm, twisting it behind my back with ruthless efficiency. Pain flares in my shoulder. “Let me go!”

Vera giggles, picking up her clutch. “Always so dramatic. Come on, let’s go somewhere quieter,” she coos, ignoring my struggle.

Panic sears through me as the bodyguards propel me toward the door. I fight, thrashing with every ounce of strength, but their grip is iron. “Lincoln!” I shout, though I know he’s too far away to hear. My voice reverberates uselessly against the tiled walls.

Trey unlocks the door, peering into the hallway to ensure it’s clear. Then we’re moving, hustling me through some back passage I didn’t notice earlier. The music from the club fades behind us, replaced by the hollow echo of my own raggedbreathing. Morris stalks at my side, occasionally glancing over with that smug smirk.

We emerge into a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of cleaning supplies and cigarette smoke. At the end, an unmarked door stands ajar, and outside it, I spot the faint glow of streetlights. This must be a side exit from the club—some staff or VIP entrance. My heart gallops as I twist my head around, desperate for any sign of Lincoln. But there’s no one else here.

Fear galvanizes me, and I kick out, hoping to catch someone’s shin, but one of Morris’s men just snarls and hoists me higher by my arm. Tears of frustration prick my eyes at the helplessness, my shoulder screaming in protest. “Stop!” I choke out. “You have no idea what?—”

Morris waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, we know plenty,” he says, voice cold. “You and your big hero. Trying to worm your way into my circle. Tut-tut.”

Vera’s laughter rings behind us. I angle a glance back, fury and shame warring in my chest. My mind swims with images of Lincoln—where is he? He’ll realize I’m gone, but will it be too late?

A van sits idling at the curb, its back doors wide open, and my heart wrenches at the sight. Everything about this scenario screams danger. The strong grip on my arm forces me forward. I dig my heels in, ignoring the stabs of pain as my shoes scrape the pavement, but the men outmatch me effortlessly.

In a desperate move, I slam my free elbow back, connecting with someone’s ribs. A grunt of pain, but it’s not enough. The second guard curses, his hold tightening until tears blur my vision.“Lincoln!” I scream again, voice breaking with fear. It echoes uselessly off the alley walls.

They shove me into the van, my knees hitting the hard floor. Morris, Vera, and Trey stand watch as the two men climb in after me. One grips a roll of duct tape. My chest constricts.

Morris leans on the side of the door, meeting my gaze with a leisurely smirk. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he purrs. “We’re not done with you yet. But you might not enjoy meeting your… admirer.”

With that, he nods to the bodyguards. Before I can fight again, strong hands force me down, pinning my arms. Tape screeches as it’s ripped from the roll, and the next thing I know, my wrists are bound, the sticky mess cutting into my skin. I thrash, but they’re too strong. My vision tunnels with sheer terror.

Vera’s figure looms in the doorway, half-lit by the van’s dome light. She gives me a mocking wave. “Bye, Isabel,” she chirps. “I had fun meeting andplayingwith you.”

I want to hurl insults, to scream that Lincoln will tear this place apart to find me, but all that comes out is a strangled sob. The doors slam shut, darkness enveloping me. The engine roars, lurching the van forward, and my stomach pitches with the movement. My pulse pounds in my ears, and my only solace is the certainty that Lincoln will come for me.

He has to. Because right now, I have no one else.

I squeeze my eyes shut, every muscle rigid against the tape cutting into my wrists, forcing myself not to succumb to blind panic. I just need to hold on, to stay strong long enough for Lincoln to find me. Because if Morris’s warnings are any sign, the worst is still to come.

Chapter 25

Lincoln

I wait near the bar, swirling what’s left of my drink in one hand. The ice clinks against the glass in a soft, rhythmic way that does nothing to soothe the restless tension coiling in my gut. Isabel has been gone too long—she stepped away with Vera not long after we had one of the most passionate moments of my life, but now minutes have crawled by. Ten, fifteen, maybe more. And neither Vera, Isabel, nor Trey, for that matter, has returned.

A knot of worry forms in my chest, tightening with every breath. I lean against the marble counter, scanning the opulent room. The music swirls in the background. Laughter bubbles up in distant corners, the hush of discreet conversations and the occasional moan from a couple too carried away to care about subtlety. But no sign of Isabel.

I check my phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. No messages, no calls. Blood pounds in my temples, an alarmbell telling me something’s off. I set my drink on the bar, the condensation leaving a slick ring. Then I push off from the counter and start weaving my way through the crowd.

I spot one of the club’s servers in a burgundy vest passing by, balancing a tray of elaborate cocktails. I tap his shoulder to catch his attention. “Excuse me,” I say, striving for polite. “Have you seen a woman in a black dress? She might’ve been with someone in a gold gown, or a tall guy in a navy suit.”

He blinks once, thinking. “I’m not sure, sir.” His gaze drifts nervously to the crowd. “All the women here look stunning in black or gold, and everyone’s dressed similarly. Perhaps you should check the next room?”

My patience frays. “Thanks,” I mutter and press on.

Trepidation churns in my gut as I zigzag between clusters of partygoers, murmuring apologies when I bump an elbow or step on a toe. Everyone seems too caught up in their own amusements—couples leaning in to share hush-hush words, or full-on making out in corners.

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