Page 57 of Defending What's Mine

By late afternoon light angles gold across the floor. Hunger gnaws; fear gnaws harder. I press my forehead to the cool glass doors, and watch the afternoon waves slap against the shore. Across the lake, the forest stretches for as far as the eye can see. No neighbors. No witnesses.

A soft click sounds. I spin, as my chair clatters.

Wade enters alone, carrying a tray. On it is bottled water, a protein bar, and a single-use camcorder. He eyes the chair, smirks, and then sets the tray on the dresser.

“Hydrate. After sunset, we record the message.”

“I won’t beg for you.” My throat trembles, but my glare stays level.

“You will.” He steps closer. I smell his cologne. It’s some expensive citrusy scent. “Or I’ll let Mikhail practice his surgical skills.” He strokes my cheek with a knuckle, and I flinch. “Think on it.” He backs out, locking the door as he goes.

Tears burn, but I swallow them down. I sip water, though my stomach knots. Then I examine the camcorder—a cheap mini thing. Could be a weapon? Too light. Maybe hide the SD card? I pry open the slot, palm the card, and slide it into my bra. My own act of tiny defiance.

Twilight seeps across the lake. Crickets start their chorus. I haul the mattress off the bed frame. It’s heavy, but my adrenaline helps. There’s steel slats underneath which is loose enough to pry one free. I jimmy at the bracket until a thin bar pops. A weapon. It’s weighty. It’ll do.

The door clicks again. Show time.

I crouch behind the bathroom door. The mattress is askew to hide my absence. Footsteps enter, Wade’s loafers. He curses, shifting the mattress. I slip out, raising the bar.

But Mikhail barges in behind him. It’s two against one.

“Run!” instinct screams, but the balcony’s locked.

Mikhail lunges, and I swing. The metal bar glances off his shoulder and he grunts, grabbing my wrist. Pain bursts white, and the bar drops. Wade yanks my hair, shoving me to the floor. My cheek slams into the hardwood. And I cry out in sheer pain.

“Stupid,” he snarls, his boot pressing into my ribs.

Tears blur my vision, but I grin. “Still not begging.”

He leans close, his breath sour. “Tomorrow you will.” He stands, straightening his cuffs. “Fix the bed,” he tells Mikhail, and then they leave, the click of the door sealing my fate.

I curl around my aching ribs, my laughter shaking me but it keeps despair at bay. Because every second I antagonize him buys time. And somewhere out there Asher is cutting through forest and rage to find me. I just have to hold on.

I crawl to the window, the moon rising silver over the lake. I whisper into the glass like it’s a radio, a lifeline, a prayer:“I’m still here.”

25

Asher

The conference room I’ve commandeered at Magnolia Ridge Resort is buzzing with anxious hotel staff, local law enforcement, and resort security—all here on my orders, all mobilized to locate Charlotte and Wade Sinclair. It’s controlled chaos, voices crackling over radios, fingers flying over keyboards as Dean coordinates intel remotely. Yet every second that ticks by feels too long.

I rake a hand through my hair, scanning the perimeter out of instinct. There’s two security officers stationed by the door, exits clear, a staff liaison nervously hovering near a coffee station. I’ve memorized every escape route from this building, every blind spot in their security feed. Yet Charlotte slipped right through, grabbed by Sinclair before I even registered the threat.

Anger twists inside me, bitter and acidic, but beneath that anger is something sharper. It’s fear. Not the professional kind I’m trained to manage. The raw, desperate fear that comes from knowing the woman I care about—the woman I’m fallingdangerously in love with—is out there, at the mercy of a man who’d do anything to win.

I shove that thought aside. Focus. Distractions now could be lethal.

“Sir?” a security officer approaches, eyes wide and voice hesitant. “We’ve brought in Mrs. Sinclair for questioning. She’s…not happy.”

I nod once, checking my phone. There’s still no text from Dean. “Bring her in.”

Moments later, Nancy Sinclair strides through the door, all Chanel and indignation, head held high. Her sharp gaze locks onto me immediately, lip curling slightly. “This is outrageous. You have no authority?—”

“Sit.” My tone cuts through her protest. Cold, direct, non-negotiable. She hesitates, then sits stiffly, eyes narrowed to icy slits. I signal security to step outside, closing the door behind them. Privacy secured.

“Where’s your son, Nancy?”

She scoffs, smoothing her designer blouse. “I have no idea. I’m not his keeper.”

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