Page 61 of Web of Lies
“Aw, don't be like that,” he purrs. “It's not that bad. I'll take good care of you for a few days until your husband is ready for you to come back home. Don't fret, princess.”
I listen to him walk by the crate without opening my eyes. I can't bear to open them yet, I'm still reeling from the light. He comes close enough that his pants brush against the bars of the crate as he goes past and my whole body jerks when he bangs against the metal with something. It makes my head ache even more and I have to breathe slowly to keep from throwing up.
“Let's get you some fresh air,” he says. Then I'm hit with a steady blast of cold air. “It'll do you good.” He laughs and walks away, leaving me shivering on my side in my cage. He leaves the light on, almost as if he knows how much the brightness hurts.
I don't know how much time passes while I lay here in emotionally numb, physical misery. It's a long time. My mind is stuck. I can't move past the constant cold air rushing over me or the hard metal tray underneath me or the dull ache from all my many scrapes and bruises. My face hurts now, not just my eye. I'm not even curious what it looks like, I know it's awful.
I've never been hit before. Not by a man or anyone else. I don't know if that makes me sheltered, lucky, or normal, but I feel so small right now that it's hard to breathe. Everything happening right now makes me feel like I can't take a full breath. I don't think I'm going to survive this.
I've lost so much. Adrian took my Dad. He took my friend. He took my company. He took the two men who saved me from him the first time. And now he's taken my freedom. He might as well take my life, too. I don't want it anymore.
Chapter Twenty-three
Wyatt
I have had a full, blissful day of fucking off and not being followed. I didn't even see two similar cars behind me at any point. I stopped for lunchanddinner without any reason to suspect anyone was paying one tiny speck of attention to me. I took every back road the surrounding five counties can boast. I stopped at a fucking produce stand and bought fucking apples because they're in season and I thought Larken would enjoy them.
So why the fuck am I seeing my front goddamned door wide the fuck open when I turn off the main road and onto my driveway?
Shaun better be dead. That's the only excuse I'll accept for this twaddling bullshit.
I take the driveway a little faster than I probably should, but anxiety is making me rash. The door isn't just open. It's destroyed. I jump out of the car and run to the house without shutting it behind me, terror making my vision tunnel. I should have been here. I shouldn't have fucked off all day. I should have come straight here.
I take the stairs two at a time but pause in front of the door, common sense and self preservation finally catching up to the panic seizing me. I don't immediately see anyone. I don't hear anyone talking. I take a tentative step just inside the door and stop to listen. The house is quiet. No one is here.
My heart slams in my chest.
No one is here.
Sheisn't here.
Would Shaun have taken her? No. I mean, yeah, he probablywouldtake her, but he wouldn't need to break the door down. Something happened. Something bad. I step across splintered wood and broken glass to go further into the room. There has to be a sign, a note, something.
There is something. It's Shaun, laying in a heap of wrong angles and blood on the floor. I couldn't see him from the door because of the couch and overturned coffee table. I rush to him, dropping on my knees and shoving him onto his back. He looks like shit, like he's been hit in the face with a brick. I lean over him, putting my fingertips on his neck where I better find a pulse. He doesn't get to be dead. He's the only person who can tell me who took Larken.
The husband. No, that coward wouldn't have the nerve to come take her himself. He'd send someone.
There. There it is. It's faint, but it's there. If he's got a heartbeat, he's not dead, and he needs to wake up. I shake him, but don't get a response. I shake him again, still nothing. I drag him over the side of the couch and prop him up, then firmly slap his cheeks. He cracks open bleary, unfocused eyes but they slide closed again.
“Shaun!” I yell, slapping him again, and his eyes slowly blink open and they focus on me but only briefly. His head lolls back and I put my hands on either side of it to keep him upright.
“Shaun, wake up? Who took her?” His eyes open once more and I shake him. “Shaun! Who took her? The husband?”
He blinks at me slowly but he doesn't respond. I can't tell if he recognizes me or is even aware of anything around him right now. “Shaun! Come on!”
Shaun's eyes flutter shut and his head drops to the side. I slap him again, hard and he groans, wincing in pain but his eyes stay closed.
I close my eyes and pull in a long breath through my nose as my heart picks up pace. I need to get Shaun help, otherwise I'll never find her. I can't exactly take him to the hospital. I don't think he has any warrants or anything, but it's never a good idea to take someone from our world to a hospital. A morgue, sure; but not an emergency department. They ask too many questions that we can never answer, and besides, my face was on TV recently. If I know anything, I know that emergency department waiting rooms have a TV that plays nothing but the news. I'll have to call Conner. He still owes me a favor and I'm calling it in.
It takes way too much time and effort, but I get Shaun into the backseat of the car. I turned off all the lights and pulled what was left of the door shut after I got him loaded in and now I'm driving as fast as I dare to the city. Conner lives with his girlfriend. It's late. He doesn't like to do work if it's late because the girlfriend has some hugely important job, but he's going to have to get over it. He's the closest medic I have open and safe communication with.
I dial his number and put it on speaker then toss it onto the seat beside me to ring. Conner picks up on the fourth right in a hushed, thick voice. “Somebody better be dead.”
“Somebody might be if you don't let me in when I get there.”
“Wyatt?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “I'm about forty minutes out.”
