Page 11 of Possession

“No shit,” Tim agrees. “But it’s your ass on the line. It’s up to you.”

I drag a hand down my face as I contemplate the woman in the next room.

Fucking hell.

* * *

Landyn

After I was toldto stop fighting back, they never said another word to me. But at least they told the truth. Besides moving me from the car to this lumpy mattress, no one has laid a finger on me.

Not even to remove the cover from my head. I’m thirsty and I’m starving.

I have no idea where I am. It feels like we drove halfway across Mexico, but I bet when one is kidnapped from their own wedding, time tends to drag.

Since this is my first rodeo, I can only assume.

If I’m honest, slamming the door and leaving me alone was a step in the right direction. But I need to go to the bathroom, my body is stiff, and whatever they bound my wrists with is cutting into my skin.

I had to force my muscles to relax, but not anymore. When I hear the lock turn and the door open, every nerve in my body goes haywire.

“Shit. You’re a fucking mess.”

That voice.

That deep, rumbly tone. It’s the same one that told me to keep my wits about me. The same one that reminded me my father sold me. And it’s the same one that refused to help me because he didn’t want toget dead.

“Please, don’t hurt me—” My panicked tone rises as a touch hits my neck.

He interrupts me immediately. “There’s no one around for miles. Scream if you want, it won’t help.”

Then, for the first time since I was in the church, I gasp a breath of air that isn’t stale. He rips the hood off my head, and I blink away the low light.

All I see is him.

Boz.

He’s bent at the waist, leering over me as his gaze rakes over my face. “You okay?”

I shouldn’t be relieved to see a familiar face. This is the man who delivered me to Damian at the altar, and he did it with no remorse. He did it knowing my fate—I could tell at the time.

I shake my head, and my voice is shaky as I try to control my tears. “No. I need to get out of here. What if the people who took me come back?”

He stands and digs a hand into his pocket. When he flips open a switchblade, my scream fills the room.

He puts a knee to the bed and a firm hand on my hip, rolling me to my stomach. “Told you no one was around. Chill out, chica. I’m trying to cut the damn zip tie from your wrists.”

Blood rushes through my arms, and I’m twisted in this damn dress trying to scramble away from him. I have my back against the headboard as I look around for the first time.

The walls are made of cinderblocks. The carpet is thin with holes worn in a path from the door. An old tube TV sits on the dresser that’s missing a drawer pull.

And Boz stands tall and wide between me and the door. He’s in the same black suit he wore to my wedding, but he lost the tie and his shirt is unbuttoned at the neck. He’s covered in as much blood as I am, and it just dawned on me it’s probably blood from the same person.

My dead fiancé.

I’m not at all upset about that turn of events.

“Where am I?” I whisper.

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