Page 12 of Love Set Free

“You are going to record a video, informing your loving parents of your current circumstances. You are going to tell them how much money they’re going to transfer to our secure bank account and how long they have to get that accomplished. You are then going to email that video to your father from your personal email account to whichever of his accounts he’s most likely to see it the quickest.”

I think we’re all surprised when the word “no” flings itself out of my mouth.

I must blink during the nanosecond it takes for the sound of my short, inexplicable, and ill-conceived response to travel along the air; reverberating sound waves invisibly journeying to jangle in disbelieving sets of ears. I must.

Otherwise, why don’t I see the dull glint of the adequately available light on a slender blade? Why doesn’t my brain registerthe swiftly efficient flick of a wrist that results in the revealing of a knife? Why don’t I flinch or attempt to move as an arm deliberately arcs, and a hand holding a sharp weapon plunges down?

Not until it’s too late.

Not before there’s nothing I can do.

Not before there’s a split second of shock before sudden, unexpected pain.

Sharp gasps. Hurriedly halted barked noises of surprise. Jerky movements of startlement. All from the other kidnappers—the one behind me and the two across the room.

From the calmly cold-eyed man across the table, only the initial, smoothly executed, singular sweep of movement. And then a still, unconcerned watchfulness, waiting for a reaction.

Screaming.

Screaming.

Befuddled terror and pain. Shock. Disbelief.

A slender, silver blade trembles from the force that sent it through flesh and bone and tissue, thunking into the wooden surface beneath. Light glimmers and shines off the metal until its reflectiveness is dulled by welling blood filling a space that now exists that hadn’t before. A small fraction of space, between an extended long digit and the newly severed nubbin of what had been its tip.

Me. That’s me.

Screaming.

Until muffled black fog descends.

And, mercifully, unconsciousness finds me.

Chapter Eight

Jackson

Finally. I’ve been waiting for this.

There’s no way to know for sure because I really can’t see shit through this fucking blindfold, but it certainly sounds like something’s going on over by Phoenix’s cage.

It’s been five—maybe, six—days since I was treated to the sounds of Phoenix getting shuffled into and locked into the cage next to my wooden crate thingy and I was starting to think that this whole kidnapping for ransom scheme wasn’t actually real. Why the hell they would’ve had me locked up if it wasn’t part of a kidnapping situation, well… That was one of many things I really preferred not to think about overly much.

I listen to Silva telling Phoenix something in Portuguese and roll my eyes. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure Phoenix knows about as much of that language as I did. Namely, zilch.

But, oh…oh… I strain my ears to make out the rough and stilted English that Silva is now throwing out there and… Okay. It sounds like Phoenix is the proud new owner of a blindfold and some restraints.

Until this moment, I wasn’t aware that Mr. Phoenix Wilding had fucking lied to me about being blindfolded. The fabric covering my own eyes has been driving me nuts ever since I let them put it on me, but now it is really, really chafing and irritating. Why the fuck do I have to be stuck in unending darkness and sightlessness when he isn’t? Doesn’t really seem fair.

Not that having to have this stupid blindfold on isn’t my own fucking fault.

The rattle and clunk of Phoenix’s cage being opened, followed by the sounds of the two men moving around, give me a pretty decent clue that Silva is letting Phoenix out of his cage. Yep, there’s the sound of their feet scraping against the rough concrete floor. I might not have seen it for about a week, but I remember what it looked like and how it sounded as my own feet had easily stepped across it.

But now, shit, I’m not even sure my legs would remember how to walk. I’ve been stuck in this fucking wooden shipping crate for a week. No chances to stroll along and stretch my legs. No offers of ‘Hey, I bet your feet feel like they’re blobs of clay, stuck right on there at the end of your legs, and your legs have gone right on past the point of hurting to feeling all weird and numb, so why don’t we let you out for a little while so you can stretch ’em out and work some feeling back into your limbs.’ Nothing.

I’ve done what I can. Moving them around as much as the small confines of my box will let me. Massaging my poor, unused muscles and trying to rub sensation back into them. Bending them, bringing my knees, one at a time, up to my chest and then carefully extending them back out as straight as I can. Which isn’t all that straight. Even if I sit up, with my body crammed as far into a corner of the crate as I can get it, I can’t stretch my legs out all the way flat. I can get them close but, until I’m let out ofthis godforsaken box, I’ve just got to deal with my legs being at least slightly bent at all times.

Ugh. I’d also love to get the rope unwrapped from around my wrists. Pretty sure my arms and hands aren’t doing much better than my legs and feet at this point. And then, of course, the damned blindfold could go too, while we’re at it.

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