Page 1 of Forbidden Bond

CHAPTER 1

Katie

I can tell you exactly how it feels to be unable to breathe despite being surrounded by air. Your lungs start to close up, your heart stutters to a stop, and your brain loses the ability to think up rational thoughts.

It’s not a panic attack per se. It’s more like you’re giving up. Like your own body is working against you, your mind wants to shut down. It’s like you’re drowning. And there aren’t any lifeboats, no one to save you.

That’s how I feel when I’m underground or in enclosed places or even in elevators.

Like I’m going to die.

* * *

Patience is not my strong suit—never has been, never will be. It’s especially not my strong suit right now, in this situation. It’s 11 p.m., and I’m stuck on the side of the road an hour away from my college campus. The road is deserted and my car won’t start.

I dial my best friend’s number for the umpteenth time, but he doesn’t pick up. Jameson answered the first time and promised to come get me, but it’s been thirty minutes. And now he’s ignoring my calls.

It’s moments like this that I wonder why I’m even friends with the idiot. But when you’ve spent the entirety of your life with a person, when you grow up together, there’s not really much of a choice. They become a sibling you have to tolerate despite wanting to kill on occasion.

In his defense, Jameson might be on his way already and I should probably stop calling. But I know him, and I know there’s a real possibility he’s passed out drunk somewhere, having lost his phone and promptly forgotten I exist. Which means I might have to find a way out of this situation myself.

Groaning softly, I step out of the car. The warm crisp air blows onto my face as I do so. For the lack of anything better to do, I glare at my vehicle. The red BMW 428i Gran Coupe was my parents’ gift to me when I got into college. I’ve been driving it for almost four years, and I’ve been taking really good care of it. I’m not sure what’s wrong with it now. I would pop the hood to find out, but judging by the way it stopped and the way the headlights dimmed before the car lost power, I’m pretty sure it’s a problem I can’t solve tonight.

Which means I’ve got to find a ride home.

I’m out of luck, though; Friday night means almost eighty percent of the population of NYU is probably at one party or the other. The lesser percentage of people like me who don’t go to parties are probably at home, resting in their dorms. Which I should have been doing, until I got it into my head that it would be a nice idea to attend a fashion show. I try calling a cab or an Uber but of course my phone has low signal. It’s always right when you need it that the signal bars tend to go on vacation.

Sighing softly, I lean on the car and cross my arms over my chest. The list of people that I know would drive out to pick me up from campus starts and ends with Jameson. This is the moment that I start to consider my life choices.

I’ve spent four years at this college and only have one friend. What is wrong with me?

I restart my phone and just when I decide to suck it up and call my older sister for help, headlights start flashing from a distance as a car drives toward me. A few moments ago, I was annoyed that there weren’t many cars driving on the road here. That was before I considered the ramifications of being found here by a stranger, all alone.

With gritted teeth, I dial Jameson’s number one more time. The call goes to voicemail and I decide to leave him what might be my last words.

“Jamie,” I say slowly, “I just want you to know that if I’m kidnapped or killed, I’ll come back from the grave and haunt you for ever and ever.”

The car finally drives up in front of me. It’s a shiny black Mercedes, a new model. Not a car most students at NYU would be driving. A part of me expects the person to keep on going but then they stop right in front of me. The headlights go off and a man steps out of the driver’s seat, walking toward me. I back away slowly until I find myself against my car.

My breath catches as I take him in. He’s an attractive man and he knows it. It’s clear in the way he carries himself, the way he’s dressed—a dark blue Armani shirt with its first three buttons undone, crisp black slacks. The man’s a personification of messily put together. His dark hair has that just-rolled-out-of-bed look.

When you live in my world, you learn to categorize people based on their appearance, but the man in front of me isn’t giving me much to go on.

“Hi,” he says, stopping in front of me. “Car trouble?”

His voice is husky, sexy with a little lilt that causes unbidden thoughts to run through my head. The man is tan with an exotic look about him that tells me he’s probably Cuban, Italian, or Mexican.

“I’m fine,” I say, looking away and avoiding his brown eyes. There’s something about his deep, piercing gaze that unravels a feeling I can’t explain inside of me.

“Really?” he drawls. He looks at my car for a second. “That’s a sweet ride. Do you want me to check it out? See if I can fix it? I know my way around cars.”

It’s nice that he offered, but I shake my head. “There’s no need. I think it’s the alternator. So unless you’ve got a new one in your car, there’s not much you can do.”

His eyes gleam with mild interest. “She knows her way around cars. Interesting.”

She also has a taser in her purse. Unfortunately… my purse is in the car.

“What can I do to help?” he asks.

---