Page 97 of In Control

The door stands ajar.

“Her door’s open,” I mutter as the others catch up to me.

Liam walks past me and pushes the door open. “She must have left it open. Sophia?”

There’s no response, just the cat continuing to wail at our feet.

Liam curses.

My blood runs cold.

This isn’t right. I knew it the moment I saw the door.

“What is it?” Esra asks, crashing past me and into the apartment.

Roman takes a protective step towards me, his hand landing on my shoulder.

“Fuck,” Esra calls and I shake off Ro’s hand and dart into the apartment too.

It takes my brain a few moments to understand what my eyes are seeing. Furniture turned upside down, cushions ripped open, stuffing and feathers scattered across the floor, cupboard doors ajar, contents strewn over the worktops and onto the floor. The paintings on the walls hang ripped and the curtains shredded. The freezer door’s been torn away and water drips onto a puddle on the floor.

“Sophia!” Liam and Esra call together, tearing through the other rooms. Roman runs to join them.

I stand in the centre of the apartment, staring at the mess as my three alphas finally race back to my side. They’re panting, their eyes wide with alarm. Usually, their discomfort would have me flitty as shit. But not today. Today, an icy fear washes over me.

“She’s not here.” They nod.

“Looks like a robbery,” Liam says, tugging out his phone.

“No,” I say, “it’s more personal than that.” I point to all the smashed photo frames.

“Someone’s trying to scare her,” Ro growls.

I shake my head again. Nausea sloshes in my stomach, but I’m surprised at how calm I feel. My hands don’t shake and my vision seems especially sharp. I see clearly. I see exactly what’s happened here.

“He’s taken Sophia.”

22

Sophia

I’m lockedin a bedroom that smells of dust. There are no clothes hanging in the closet and the drawers in the chest are empty. The walls are blank and the furnishings are sparse.

I’m guessing it’s a guest room and, judging by the height of the locked window, I’m on the second floor.

He told me I was to stay in here until I’d ‘calmed down’ and was ready to talk to him in ‘a civilised manner’.

That’s because I’d yelled and called him a string of choice adjectives and nouns when he’d removed the gag from my mouth.

Motherfucker.

He’d untied my arms too, slipping out of the door before I’d had a chance to scratch his eyes out.

I take another circuit of the room, this time checking under the bed and behind the curtains, searching for a weapon of some sort. There’s nothing. The room is completely bare.

I glance at the bed, then drop down onto the carpeted floor and rub at my wrists, bruised and chafed from where they were bound together.

What the fuck does he want from me?

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