Page 82 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
I drive down a gentle hill before hitting a stone access road, then coasting under a collection of swaying palms. The house in front of me is huge, all Mediterranean plaster, stacked stone, and wood accents. It’s jaw-droppingly beautiful.
We’re staying here for a few days? Alone?
As the gate shuts behind me, I follow the stone drive around the back of the house, hop out when I see the keypad beside the garage door, tap in the code, and watch as it, too, opens to reveal a giant, empty garage.
Once I’m parked inside, I scoop up the bag of medical supplies I tossed together and the kitten, then head into the house.
It’s vast and dark. My footsteps echo on the tile. It feels empty, as if no one has been here in a while. But if the walls could talk, I’m pretty sure the conversation would be damn interesting.
I meander down a hall, through an enormous living room, then into the kitchen, flipping on lights along the way, then set the bag on a giant square island in the gorgeous warm-wood kitchen. I ease Shadow to the tiled floor. “Wow.”
She looks up at me, seemingly confused. “Meow.”
Is she hungry?
Shit. I remembered a little box for her to do her business…but I forgot to bring her food. I add it to the mental list of things I’ll have to somehow get my hands on.
“Explore, girlie. I’ll be right back.”
Then I head once more toward the car—and Ransom.
When I step into the garage, I freeze. The massive slab of a door is now closed. The overhead light is dark. Moonlight splashes through the windows, illuminating the space just enough to tell me one terrifying thing.
Ransom is no longer in the front seat.
Suddenly, I’m grabbed from behind. One brawny arm hooks around my neck. The other squeezes my middle. I feel hot breath and male stubble against my ear. I shiver.
“You have five seconds to tell me where the fuck I am and how I got here or I’ll kill you.”
He’s not kidding since I suddenly feel a gun against my ribs.
6
Ransom
* * *
“D-Don’t hurt me, Ransom. Please.”
Fuck.
I’d know that voice anywhere. I know the pitch. I know the tone. I even know the slightly shaky quality because I heard it every agonizing day of the hellacious two weeks the underage temptress stayed under my roof.
In my son’s bed?
Suspecting the answer to that question is yes has tormented me for weeks.
“Havana?” I spin her and flip on the overhead light.
It’s her, all right.
She looks fragile. Her golden eyes are startlingly large in her unusually pale face. She’s thinner. There’s a smear of blood on her cheek. And she’s wearing a T-shirt I recognize as Ethan’s.
Son of a bitch. Did they fuck tonight, on her birthday?
“How did I get here?” Wherever here is.
She fills me in. I remember the gunfire, but I don’t remember passing out. Damn. Thankfully, I’m only vaguely aware of the pain now.
