Page 3 of Possession

Mom dabs at her eyes so her tears don’t mess up her mascara. She shakes her head dramatically. “There has to be something we can do. There has to be.”

Whoever is on the other side doesn’t wait for us to answer. The door opens, and a man I’ve never seen stands there, filling the space with complete and utter authoritative force.

His tailored suit fits his large frame as perfectly as his expression that screams business. He’s tall and broad, and looks more like a GQ model or an NFL player arriving for the biggest game of the season rather than a drug dealer. His hair is clipped short, his manicured beard is even shorter, and his dark skin is flawless.

He's gorgeous.

He also doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for dramatics.

I guess begging for my life is off the table.

His deep voice rumbles through the room. “Two cars are waiting outside. Damian won’t be happy if we’re late.”

Well then.

That isn’t good.

That is all kinds of bad.

Damian Marino is buying a twenty-three-year-old college dropout who is always late.

As if it could get any worse.

My dad picks up my mother’s purse and grabs her wrist. He tries to put up a show of decorum and lifts his chin, like he’s somehow important. “We’ll ride with Landyn. We’d like to spend the time with her on the way to the church.”

The muscled man in a suit shakes his head once. “You and Mrs. Alba will go in the first car. The bride will arrive last, on her own. It’s what Mr. Marino ordered.”

I turn quickly to look back at my parents. As angry and frightened as I am, I didn’t think this would be it.

The man steps aside and motions to the door. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” I beg. The need to drag my Jimmy Choos is overwhelming. “Will I see them after the wedding?”

The man reaches for my elbow, as if I might run in this tight-ass dress. “No. You’ll be taken straight to Damian’s home after the wedding.”

My expression falls, and my knees go weak.

This is it.

Holy shit.

This is it.

The man who looks like he can take down brick walls while wearing a custom suit gives me a little yank. I have no choice but to move, and my parents follow us out the door.

The moment we step foot outside, the sunny day is a slap across my face.

It’s warm and bright and beautiful—technicolor spreads as far as I can see. After my shot of Novocaine to the heart that has lasted days, all of a sudden, every nerve ending in my body is hyperaware.

The flowers are brighter.

The ocean breeze is crisper.

The sun is hotter.

And the hand on my elbow becomes tighter.

Twin black Escalades greet us like the Devil himself on doomsday, sitting side by side outside the villa that has become a holding cell.

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