Page 90 of Possessive Mafia Vows

The jet must’ve obtained clearance to land though, right? Airplanes don’t just take off and land as they please; the flight paths would be carnage, and there would be steaming great hunks of aircraft debris all around the world. So, if anyone can track where the plane touched down, it’s Kyle.

I take deep breaths and try to ignore the stench of mold seeping through my pores and incubating inside my lungs.

Kyle will know which country I’m in, but unless the Murrays saw me being carried, unconscious, off that private jet and followed us here, he’ll still have to find me.

Unless I can contact him myself.

I already know that I’m no longer wearing the fake engagement ring, but I haven’t tried moving my arms and legs.

Starting with my feet, I slide them across the lumpy mattress, wincing at the bite of cold as I leave behind the part of the bed warmed by my body heat. My ankles are not bound, so if I can stop the room from spinning, I’ll be able to stand up and walk.

It’s better than nothing.

Next, I try flexing my fingers.

They feel like something bony pulled out of the freezer, but my movement isn’t restricted. Using my hands, I support my upper body on the mattress and push myself upright.

My brain cells swim, making me feel even more nauseous. The pounding ache inside my head shifts to the top of my skull; it feels as though someone’s fist has grabbed a hold of my brain and is squeezing it like a sponge.

I’ve no idea how long I sit there, waiting for the thump-thump-thump to subside. When it finally eases enough for me to open my eyes and survey my surroundings, I’m even more convinced that this is a basement.

The stone floor is as slick as the walls. I can’t see any furniture other than the bed upon which I’m sitting. In the dense gloom, I can’t even see if there’s an overhead lamp. I scan the room until my eyes finally settle upon a gray mass with a different consistency to the rest of the wall. The door.

My escape route.

Gripping the edge of the mattress, I haul myself into a standing position. The room sways violently, and I instinctively reach for the wall to keep me upright. My stomach twists at the slimy touch, but I force myself to lean on it to stop me from falling over. If I want to get out of here, I need to keep moving.

Si, you’re the strongest person I know. You’re not going to let a flight to Dublin beat you.

I can hear Victoria as clearly as if she were standing next to me.

“No, I’m not going to let a flight to Dublin beat me,” I say out loud. I grit my teeth. “Do you hear me, universe? I’m SiennaWalker. I survived the car crash you threw at me, and I’m going to survive this too.”

I take a tentative step away from the bed and the slippery wall. I feel weak, like I’m convalescing following a serious illness. Every part of my body aches. I’m shivering uncontrollably, and it isn’t only from the cold.

I have no idea what’s on the other side of that door. All I can hear is my blood pumping around my veins. But I have to try. Curiosity didn’t kill the cat; it gave it a pat on the back for trying and rewarded it with a cozy cushion in front of a roaring fire and a dish filled with fresh cream.

This is the image I keep in mind as I make my way slowly across the dingy room.

A brightly lit room. A roaring fire. A mug of steaming coffee.

An image of Kyle’s green eyes flashes into my head, and I pause to regulate my breathing. “He’s coming for me. If he meant what he said, he’ll keep his promise, and he won’t let anything bad happen to me.”

I keep moving. One foot in front of the other. My heart and my head are pounding.

I’m almost there when I hear a faint click.

My heart skips. I swipe the clammy air frantically for something to support me and find nothing. I’m still floundering like a fish out of water when the door opens, and I’m greeted by a swatch of dull artificial light.

I blink. Even this sickly yellow light is bright after the intense darkness, and when I manage to squint at the doorway, a man steps into view.

“You’re awake.” It’s Nick. He isn’t smiling. “Turn around and walk back to the bed, there’s a good girl.”

Good girl.

“Where am I?”

“I said ‘sit down’.” His voice is snappy, brittle, cold. Gone is the gentle tone reserved for his patients.

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