Page 18 of Taken

My mission just got more focused. And more essential.

Because those eyes didn’t belong to a broken woman. They belonged to someone biding her time.

Someone waiting for precisely what I represent.

A way out.

Chapter 6

Lila

The extraction chamber reeks of antiseptic, the air heavy with fear. My fear, mostly. My body still betrays me with trembling hands and a racing pulse whenever they strap me to this chair.

Hargen works silently beside me, attaching electrodes, running through checks. Behind him, Creed paces, checking his watch every thirty seconds as if time might cheat him personally.

“Where is he?” Creed snaps, his impatience a tangible force in the room.

“Security chiefs can’t be rushed,” I mutter before I can stop myself. “All those doors to glower at on the way.”

Creed’s head whips toward me, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “Careful, witch.”

I hold his gaze for three heartbeats before looking away. Showing him he can’t tame me. That’s all I have left.

The door hisses open. I don’t turn my head—dignity requires at least the pretense of disinterest—but every nerve in my body snaps to attention.

Ifeelhim enter.

“Reeve.” Creed’s voice shifts, professional respect overlaying the perpetual disdain. “Right on time.”

“I make it a point to be.” The voice is a controlled tenor that vibrates through my bones like distant thunder.

Footsteps approach from behind, deliberate and measured. I keep my eyes fixed on the wall ahead, refusing to show curiosity. Let him look first. Let him see what they’re about to do.

“Asset 4-A,” Creed says, as if I’m equipment to be cataloged. “Our greatest coup.”

Coup, my ass. I walked into his fucking clutches.

“The Rossewyn witch.” The newcomer steps into my peripheral vision.

I turn my head.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

He’s nothing like I expected.

Tall and lean—six-two at least—with an athletic build that his fitted tactical shirt and cargo pants can’t quite disguise. It’s complemented by rugged combat boots and a disciplined bearing that hints at his military background. Golden brown hair falls slightly across his forehead, longer on top than Syndicate standard. His rugged features bear the subtle weathering of experience rather than age, with a thin pale scar tracing his left jawline that speaks of violence survived.

Holy shit.

I swallow hard, unsettled by this visceral reaction. I’ve been here so long that I’ve forgotten what physical attraction feels like.

Oh, get a grip, Lila. This isn’t attraction.

Apprehension, maybe. I’ll probably hate him as much as Creed in a week.

Yet I can’t help watching him. He moves with unnerving grace, each step deliberate yet fluid, economy of motion; like someone who doesn’t waste energy but knows how to use it. But it’s his eyes that knock the air from my lungs. Emerald green that shifts in intensity like sunlight through a forest canopy. Dragon eyes, yes, but these hold something I haven’t seen in my years inside this place.

---