Page 14 of Scarlet Mark
Unluckily for me, I was among those few.
Suppressing a shudder, I tried to relax in my seat, waiting for the train to start rolling. The sooner the better. I’d drugged Killian a few hours ago, so he would definitely be awake now, and lucid.
And probably pissed.
Malcom will punish him for failing.
A shiver of unease pulsed through my being. I never meant to bring anyone else into this mess. Not that I’d invited Killian into my life. That lay at Malcom’s feet. Technically, everything did. That man was a heinous piece of—
“Berlin?” a deep voice drawled as a now-familiar man took the seat beside me, blocking my one and only exit into the aisle. The window to my right didn’t open, not that I could jump through it anyway. Because the train had just started moving.
Oh, fuck…
“That’s almost, what, six and a half hours?” he continued, his lips curling. “Plenty of time for us to catch up, yeah?”
“H-how?” I breathed. I’d knocked him out cold. Left him atDiavolo Rojo. Didn’t return to my home, but instead went to the locker that held my escape kit. Killian Bedivere should not have been able to follow me. I’d mapped this out perfectly, had my ticket purchased in cash on-site. No tracking. No visibility. My hair was in a ponytail beneath a hat, my clothes street-appropriate and meant to blend in with a crowd. He should not have been able to find me.
“Oh, Amara,” he sighed. “This is what I do for a living. I always have contingency plans in place.” He grabbed my forearm, sliding a bracelet around my wrist and closing it before I could even think to react. “There. That’s better. Now you’re mine.”
I flinched my arm away from him, the skin burning from where he’d touched me. And glowered at the metal cuff. “What the fuck?”
“You know, I love technology.” He opened his palm to reveal a remote of some kind. “Run off and I’ll press this button. Trust me, you don’t want that to happen.”
My blood chilled. “What?”
“It’s similar to a tagging device, only more lethal.” He shrugged, sliding the gadget into his jacket pocket. He’d changed out of the suit, donning black jeans, a blood-red sweater, and a leather coat. “Now, where were we? Oh, right, you knocked me out with a drug. I really hope that needle was clean, Amara, or you’re going to regret ever meeting me.”
“I already regret it.”
His lips curled into a handsome grin. “Don’t tease me, darling. I’m still rather hot and bothered from our playtime last night.” He winked at me and bent to pick up my bag from the floor. I reached for it, but he tsked. “Naughty, Amara. What will I do with you?”
Killian’s words struck me in the gut, sending me back to a night in Malcom’s basement. To his displeasure at my lackluster performance.
My cheek stung from the imprint of his palm, my sides aching from the exertion of remaining in a kneeling position. I’d done what he asked, what he demanded of me. But not to his satisfaction.
“What part of ‘find out what he knows’ don’t you get?” he demanded. “You’re supposed to suck his cock, or do whatever other activity he asks. Then prod him while he’s in a state of bliss. Your guardians promised me you were well trained in the art of sexual interrogation, but I’m really starting to think you’re broken.” He took a long drag on his cigar, sighing. “Perhaps it’s a performance issue.”
“I tried and he—”
Malcom grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking my head backward to meet his cold gaze. “Did I say I wanted an explanation?”
“N-no, sir,” I managed on a stutter, my throat burning from a lack of water. He’d kept me chained down here for too long, furious that I hadn’t been able to obtain the details he needed from Representative Bryce. All the man wanted to do was fuck my mouth, which made asking questions difficult. And he wasn’t the type to cuddle afterward.
“Oh, Amara. What will I do with you?” Malcom asked on a sigh, his blue eyes glimmering with ideas. All of them malicious. All of them designed to hurt. “I have a client meeting tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll lay you out naked across the table, let them—”
“Passports and tickets,” a gruff voice announced, shaking me from the dark memory. I could still feel the hands on me from that subsequent meeting, still taste them all on my tongue.
“Killian with Europol,” my companion said in fluent German, handing the man a black wallet. “I’m escorting this woman back to Berlin for trial.”
My lips parted.What?
“Oh?” The border agent flipped the top to review the badge inside.
Seriously?
Killian pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, holding it out for the officer. “Do you need her passport? It’s in this bag somewhere.” He jostled the backpack—mybackpack—on his lap. He hadn’t gone through it yet, so his statement was a guess. An accurate one, but still a leap of faith.
“That won’t be needed, Officer Killian,” the slender male replied. “Do you need help with detainment?”
