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Chapter 2

Charlie's arm was asleep. She rolled over and her shoulder twisted at an awkward angle. Then she remembered, as the nightmare returned, she was handcuffed to the bed. She sat up and rubbed it, hoping to get the blood flowing again. Wind rattled the solitary window in the room and rain beat against the roof in a steady drum. This was the second location, somewhere far from Edinburgh, somewhere much farther from her home in Connecticut, a tiny bedroom in the middle of nowhere. It might as well be her coffin. The door opened, making her jump, and her abductor walked in carrying a plastic bag followed by a large sable and white dog. Dressed in a worn kilt of green, blue and red tartan and a long-sleeved Henley shirt, he still wore the leather holster fastened tight across his muscled chest, securing both a gun and knife. He set the bag down on the dresser and undid the cuff around her wrist, releasing her arm. She pulled it close to her chest as the feeling slowly crept back in with the prick of a thousand pins and needles.

"Come," he said, helping her to stand up. She winced as he took a hold of her injured wrist and set it down gently. "I'll need to look at that."

"I need to use the restroom." Tears flooded her eyes. Humiliated that she wet herself last night, she rocked back and forth, trying to hold it in now.

"Aye, very well then." He put his hand on her shoulder, guiding her to the bathroom. It was small, and an old-fashioned claw foot tub sat in the corner. Charlie leaned against the counter, waiting for him to leave. Instead, he started to fill the tub. "Use the toilet."

Her chin trembled as she fought off the urge to cry. She couldn't hold it anymore. She pulled up the hem of her black dress with her good arm and pulled down her damp underwear, sitting down.

"When you're done, take your dress off. You need to bathe." Satisfied with the level of water in the tub, he turned the faucet off and stood up, pulling towels and soap from a cabinet.

She froze. He was going to rape her and was waiting until she was clean. She had tried to prepare herself for this possibility, but now that it was happening, she started to sob. The things the abductor will do to you before you die will be far worse, echoed in her mind.

He stood over her. "Stop crying," he said roughly. "You need to clean up." He unzipped her dress, pulling it off her shoulders.

She pushed his hands away with her good arm and stood up. "I can manage." She knew deep down she shouldn't make him angry. She remembered the instructor of the self-defense class talking about passive cooperation. "Please, can I have some privacy? I promise I won't do anything."

"I'm not leaving you. Now take the damn dress off." His hand brushed over the knife, reminding her she was dealing with a killer. She could survive rape but not murder.

She pulled one side of her dress down as she struggled to step out of it, not wanting to use her injured wrist and trying to keep herself covered at the same time.

"Stop." He placed her hands at her sides, removed the dress, then pulled down her panties and unclasped her bra in quick succession.

He picked her up before she could stop him and placed her in the tub. She sat down and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arm around her legs protectively.

The water was hot, burning her skin. He picked up a sponge and poured soap over it as he began to wash her back. His touch was feather light and startling in its gentleness. Those were the hands of a cold-blooded murderer. He could kill her right here and now. He handed her the sponge. "Go ahead and wash the rest of yourself." He set a bottle of shampoo on the tub rack. She was too afraid not to listen and was quick about her work. He took a dollop of shampoo and massaged it into her scalp, leaning her head back to rinse it. When he was done, he helped her stand and rubbed her dry with a course white towel. He stepped back, looking at her, his steel eyes perusing her body. She quickly wrapped the towel around herself and stepped out of the tub, following him into the bedroom. Goosebumps erupted on her skin. The air in the bedroom was cold compared to the tight confines of the bathroom. She looked for a way out, but the dog blocked the door.

"Hurry and change," he said, taking the tags off a pair of jeans and a cream fisherman's sweater. He tossed them on the bed along with a pair of black lace underwear and bra. She fingered the garments, looking up at him.

"Now." He ripped the towel from her, making her jump. She quickly put the clothes on. He led her out to the front room and sat her in a worn leather armchair by the fire. The fact that she was dressed and unharmed was a small security. The dog had followed them out of the room and sat down in front of her, emitting a large yawn. The tip of one of his pointed ears folded over, giving him a mischievous appearance.

"Watch her, William," he said as he went back into the bedroom.

She looked at the dog, then the front door. Run, her gut told her. She bolted from the chair, rushing to the door. The dog barked madly behind her, nipping at her heels, but as she got to the door, a large arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back. She struggled to free herself and managed to knee him in the groin. He let out a low moan but recovered quickly, twisting her arm behind her back.

"That was a bad idea." He led her back to the chair and pushed her down in it, clamping one end of the handcuffs around her ankle and the other around the leg of the chair. "There's nothing out there. We're far away from any town and the next time you try something like that, I promise, you'll regret it." Tears filled her eyes. That had been her chance, and she doubted there would be another. The dog came back, looking abashed, and curled up by her feet. The man brought a towel over and began to rub the wetness from her long, dark-brown hair before running a brush through it. Then he went to the kitchen and came back with a first aid kit, sitting down on a tattered ottoman in front of her.

"It's swollen," he said, holding her wrist and examining it. He palpated the bones. "Though I don't think it's broken. It's most likely just sprained." Charlie looked around at her surroundings, as he pulled out an elastic bandage and wrapped it around her hand and arm. It was surprisingly modern compared to the bedroom. A state-of-the-art kitchen opened up into the living room and floating stairs led to a loft above. She noticed two laptop computers on the table along with a small arsenal of weapons. What had she been thinking? There would be no escape for her. This man was a killer and his good looks were as deceiving as a forked tongue. Done with his job as nurse, she watched as he moved to the kitchen and began to prepare food, pulling various items from the small refrigerator. The electric kettle whistled, and he poured water into mugs. He came back over, studying her as he handed her a cup of tea. "Drink, it will take the chill from your body."

Charlie pretended to sip the scalding tea. Her stomach was a lead weight. Nothing would take the chill from her.

"Why were you at the bar?" he asked, returning to the kitchen. He started to chop potatoes, spreading them out on a pan when he finished. "It was past opening hours."

She looked up, startled, not expecting the question. The fact he was casually preparing a meal after killing two people and kidnapping her, exposed the iniquitousness of his soul. If only she hadn't gone to the damn bar. She couldn't sleep that night. The small flat was too warm. The Edinburgh Fringe had concluded and the girl she rented a room from was having a party into the early morning hours. She wasn't in the mood for a crowd or the noise, so she left the apartment to take a walk. She needed to use the restroom and stopped at the pub. It was getting ready to close but she managed to slip in before they locked the doors. She was coming out of the bathroom when everything… transpired.

"I-I don't know," she said. "I had gone for a walk and ended up there."

"Without a phone or a purse?"

She had no need of a phone. She had turned it off two weeks before, so no one could contact her or track her GPS. She wanted it that way. No questions from her family or Michael. No way for them to trace her location. The few times she had turned it on briefly out of guilt and regret, she found no one had tried to call her after the first couple of days. The reality was shocking but deep down inside it spoke volumes of her relationships.

"No identification? It seems a bit careless for a foreigner in a different country."

What did it matter to him if she was careless? "I had my passport on me." She felt the need to defend herself.

"I didn't find a passport," he said, concerned.