Page 19 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

I fire off a quick text to Scar:

Something came up. Tonight’s job is not happening. Take the night off and get the jet ready for Moscow at dawn.

His response pings back instantly.

Whatever, asshole.

I toss the phone onto the couch and start pacing the living room. Luna’s ketamine-laced snores drift from the open bedroom—a steady reminder that everyone wants a piece of her. Her family. Her friend. The damn government.

And there’s not one fucking thing I’m going to do about it, except let her sleep.

Hell, it’s probably the best sleep she’ll get in a long time.

8

Luna

Something digs into my hip, dragging me from the depths of unconsciousness. My eyes flutter open, but the world refuses to focus.

Dim light seeps through a gap in thick beige curtains, casting shadows across an unfamiliar room. My tongue feels like sandpaper, and my head throbs with each heartbeat.

Where the hell am I?

The scent of fresh coffee teases my nose, mingling with something warm and spicy—unmistakably masculine. The kind of scent that makes your stomach clench and your thighs tighten, even when your brain’s screaming danger.

Pushing up on my elbows, I take in my surroundings. Abstract wall art in muted golds and blacks. Extravagant furnishings. And a small gold-embossed card on the nightstand.The Belvoir.

The Belvoir?

I lift the heavy covers, relief flooding through me when I find I’m still fully dressed. But that only raises more questions—I never sleep in clothes. Did I get plastered last night?

Then, like a ton of bricks, the events of the previous evening crash through my fog in rapid succession:

The seedy club . . . Those piercing green eyes burning into me across the room . . . His macho bullshit in the bathroom . . . The sharp prick in my neck . . .

Oh fuck. That asshole drugged me!

Something awful occurs to me and my hands scramble over my body, fingers searching frantically for needle tracks. Rocky jabbed me with something in the neck.

Could he have taken a blood sample?

My stomach churns as I remember Papa’s threat about the blood test, whether I liked it or not.

Could Papa have hired this guy to get what he wanted?

I throw off the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed, but the moment I stand, the room tilts violently. The marble floor seems to ripple under my feet, and my stomach lurches in protest.

Come on, body, cooperate. I need to get my bearings and figure out how to get the hell out of here.

When the room finally settles, I eye the partially open bedroom door. Through the gap, I catch glimpses of gilded furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows.

Apparently, the guy’s got standards for his kidnapping locations.

Looks like we’re several floors up so there’s only one way out: through that room. And I know Rocky’s in there—I can feel his presence like static electricity in the air.

I don’t suppose he’ll just let me walk out. I’ll need to fight my way out.

So, find a weapon,my rational mind suggests.

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