Page 55 of Stalk Me

Dominic Griffiths—the man who cleans up my father’s dirt.

Terror seizes my chest, but I force it down. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when we're so close to freedom.

"She's asleep," one of the men whispers, his voice military precise and cold.

"Good," Griffiths replies, his familiar drawl sending ice through my veins. "Makes our job easier. Sebastian wants her at the house before dawn."

My father. He knows. Somehow, he's discovered our plan. Or worse—he's accelerated his timeline for whatever he has planned for me and Erik.

The men approach my bed, movements coordinated with professional efficiency. I consider my options in the split second I have left. Fight? I'm outnumbered and outmatched. Scream? No one would reach me in time, and they undoubtedly have ways to silence me. Run? There's nowhere to go.

I decide to maintain the pretense of sleep. Maybe I can learn something useful and find an opportunity to escape later. The moment one of them reaches for me, I let out a soft murmur and shift position, as if disturbed by a dream but not awakening.

"Careful," Griffiths warns. "If she wakes up, this gets complicated. Sebastian was very specific about bringing her quietly."

"What about the sedative?" the second man asks.

"Only if necessary," Griffiths responds. "He wants her coherent for the gathering, just… compliant."

My pulse quickens. They’re talking about the worst of all the parties, where the elite indulge their darkest desires under the guise of networking. Where I've been paraded and passed around like a prize for as long as I can remember.

One of the men pulls back my covers in a single smooth motion. Before I can react, strong arms wrap around me, pinning my own arms to my sides. I abandon the pretense of sleep, thrashing and kicking as panic overtakes calculation.

"Let me go!" I snarl, my elbow connecting with solid muscle to no effect.

"Now, now, Luna," Griffiths says, stepping into the dim light from my window. His face is shadowed, but I can hear the smirk in his voice. "Is that any way to greet an old friend? Your parents are expecting you."

"Fuck you," I hiss, still struggling against the iron grip holding me. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

Griffiths sighs dramatically. "I was afraid you'd say that." He nods to the second man, who produces a syringe from his jacket pocket. "Just a little something to make the journey more pleasant."

Terror floods me—not of the drug itself, but of what awaits me once I'm unconscious and at their mercy. I redouble my efforts, managing to land a solid kick to the knee of the man holding me. He grunts but doesn't loosen his grip.

"Hold her still," Griffiths orders as the second man approaches with the syringe.

"No!" I scream, hoping against hope that someone will hear. "Help! Someone hel?—"

A large hand clamps over my mouth, muffling my cries. I bite down hard, tasting blood, but the grip only tightens painfully.

"Enough games," Griffiths snaps, all pretense of civility gone. "Do it now."

The needle plunges into my neck, a sharp sting followed by spreading warmth. Almost immediately, my limbs begin to feel heavy, my thoughts sluggish. I continue to struggle, but my movements become uncoordinated, ineffective.

"There we go," Griffiths says, his voice seeming to come from far away. "That's better. Much more manageable."

As darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision, one terrible thought cuts through the drug-induced haze: Erik. If they're taking me, they're taking him too. We're both walking into the trap we've spent days trying to avoid.

"Erik…" I manage to slur, fighting to stay conscious. "Leave him…"

"Don't worry about Mr. Stone," Griffiths says, his face swimming in and out of focus above me. "He's receiving the same special invitation. You'll see him at the party."

The last thing I see before consciousness slips away is Griffiths’ cold smile, a predator savoring his successful hunt. The last coherent thought that flickers through my fading mind is of Erik and the hope that somehow, Professor Austin has already reached his brother. That somewhere beyond this darkness, help is coming.

I just have to survive until it arrives.

* * *

I drift back to consciousness slowly, awareness returning in disjointed fragments. The vibration of an engine beneath me. The smell of leather and expensive cologne. The sensation of movement. I'm in a car—one of my father's luxury SUVs, judging by the butter-soft leather seats and the faint scent of the sandalwood air freshener he prefers.

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