Page 26 of Knight

“Get some rest before you hurt yourself trying to be clever.”

“Already did that.” I'm not sure if she means hurting herself or being clever. “Trusted the wrong Knight …”

I grab a throw from the back of a chair. “Go to sleep, Glitch.” I stand there and watch until the anomaly in my carefully ordered existence finally loses her battle with consciousness.

I need to get back to my workstation and figure out who gained access to my security codes. I need to understand why someone would go to this much trouble.

But first, I need coffee.

A lot of coffee.

And maybe some aspirin.

Because it turns out stubbornness has one hell of a right hook.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Evangeline

I wakeup to darkness and silence. There’s no sound of traffic, no neighbor’s television bleeding through the walls, no hint of where I am except the unfamiliar texture of the couch beneath me. Still half-asleep and disoriented, it takes me a second to remember what happened.

Then the pain in my shoulders and wrists returns. Not as bad as it was before I fell asleep, but still a dull throb that I can’t ignore, and with it, so do the memories of the last twenty-four hours.

The blanket tangles around my legs as I push myself up, testing whether my arms work. They do … sort of. I rotate my shoulders carefully, working out the stiffness. Every muscle protests the movement, but at least I can control them now.

The darkness is absolute. It’s like being wrapped in black velvet, and my other senses strain to compensate, picking up small details. The air smells clean. Almosttooclean. No cooking odors, no lingering traces of anyone actually living here. The temperature is perfect. Not too hot, not too cold. Even the silence feels manufactured.

The couch feels like expensive leather, butter-soft under my fingers. I trace its shape, trying to build a mental map. Threeseats, based on the cushions. An end table to my right holds what feels like a lamp, but I don't dare try to turn it on. I think it might be made of metal and glass. Heavy. I could use it as a weapon if I get desperate enough.

I ease my feet to the floor, then hesitate.

What if I can’t stand properly? What if I fall? What if I make a noise and he comes back and drags me back into the bathroom?

My heart rate kicks up speed, but I force it down. I can’t afford to panic right now. I can’t let my mind spiral back through everything that’s happened to me.

I need to focus on what I can learn. What I can use. Then I need to get out of here and call the police.

The police … my phone! Where’s my phone?

My hand goes to the back pocket of my jeans, but the familiar shape of my phone isn’t there.

Did he take it? Did I drop it? Maybe I should try to find it.

I stand cautiously, but my legs are steadier than I expected, and I take a careful step forward. My knee bumps into something solid, and I stretch out a hand, running my palm along the edge. A coffee table. From the feel of it, more metal and glass. Apparently his aesthetic is prison chic meets modern furniture showroom. My fingers trail across the surface, but there’s nothing there.

What kind of monster has a coffee table with no clutter covering it?

There must be a wall somewhere. The room can’t be that big. I turn, and keeping one hand touching the couch, I shuffle forward with tiny steps. One wrong move could send me crashing into something. The carpet muffles my movements, but in this silence even breathing seems too loud.

When I reach the end of the couch, I pause. I need to be extra careful now. With my hands outstretched in front of me, I keepmoving until, eventually, my fingers touch something solid. A wall.Finally.

I follow it, counting steps, still building that mental map in my head. I reach a corner, another wall … a door frame.

My heart is a staccato beat in my ears when I search for the handle. It doesn’t move.

Locked. Of course it’s locked.

The wall continues. Another door. Also locked. Everything seems designed to control movement, to restrict access. It’s like being trapped in an elaborate puzzle box.

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