Page 21 of Stolen Faith

“Mine too,” Brennon added.

“Makes sense they took them. I don’t know how long we were out.” Rowan had only come to at the end of the trip. He had no memory of being taken out of her apartment or how long they were in the vehicle. It could have been minutes or could have been hours. Days.

“We’re going to be fine,” Izabel insisted.

Rowan hoped she was right because from what he’d seen, from the sheer number of people involved in this kidnapping, there was no way he could safely get all three of them out of there.

Juliette switched between watching the monitor and watching Devon breathe.

Bandages covered his bare chest. Hid the wounds.

She’d watched him get shot in the chest at point-blank range. She’d been sure he was dead.

The effects of the drugs they’d given her had still been swimming in her system as she came to. Those drugs were the only things that had kept her from completely losing it as she watched two people in scrubs spend an hour extracting small black things from his chest.

Pellets. They’d called them pellets.

If that gun had been firing regular bullets, Devon would be dead. Instead, he’d been shot with what someone had called “less-lethal rubber pellets.”

They’d stopped talking when they realized she was awake. They’d also tied her to the chair she’d been slumped in.

She was still in that same chair, her wrists bound to the arms, ankles to the legs, and ropes around both her waist and shoulders.

Devon’s lashes fluttered, a frown marring his brow.

He groaned, trying to raise one hand. His arm didn’t move far—padded medical restraints around his wrists were bound to the arms of the old-fashioned metal frame of a hospital bed. But even that much movement must have been enough to unseat the IV in his arm because the box on the IV pole started to beep.

Devon’s eyes flew open. She watched his gaze track from the IV stand to the heart monitor display, down to his bandaged chest.

He raised his head, and looked at his bound wrists. His head fell back to the pillow with an exhausted groan.

“Juliette? Franco?”

Devon’s voice was so quiet she almost couldn’t hear it, but the heartbroken panic in his words was clear.

Juliette leaned forward, calling his name. All that came out was a muffled noise. They’d gagged her with a thick piece of fabric forced between her teeth and tied at the back of her head. A second piece of fabric was wound twice around the bottom of her face, covering her mouth and chin. The fabric pressed up against the bottom of her nose, half covering her nostrils, making her work for each breath.

But she’d made enough of a sound, even if it wasn’t words.

Devon looked over.

Their gazes met, and relief washed over Juliette. She closed her eyes for a moment, sagging in the ropes. Tears slid down her cheeks, soaking into the fabric.

“Juliette. Are you okay?” Devon’s voice was rough and scratchy, like he needed water.

She nodded. She was bruised, but they hadn’t shot her.

“Franco?”

More tears fell. Juliette shook her head. She had no idea where their husband was. The last she remembered seeing him was back in the library when they were attacked. She hadn’t seen him since she’d woken up here with Devon.

The makeshift hospital room looked like a repurposed bedroom. A large bedroom, but a bedroom. There was wall-to-wall carpeting and dark wainscoting. The walls above were a deep green. The dark walls made it feel like a cave. Maybe if there had been windows, it would have been okay. But the windows she assumed were present in the far wall—floor-to-ceiling brocade drapes in maroon were pulled back with heavy tassel ties—were covered with plywood.

“Dead?” Devon’s voice was perfectly calm.

Juliette raised one shoulder in a half shrug. It was the only way she could think of to tell Devon she didn’t know.

It would be stupid to hope he was still alive. They’d probably left his body in the library as a message.

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