Page 3 of Vendetta

I squirm on the seat, the leather squeaking under me as I try to move. I make a noise against the gag, trying to scream, but it comes out like a pathetic moan.

Whoever is driving ignores me.

The motion of the car is making me feel nauseous. I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified in my life. I squirm again, screaming into the gag. The music volume goes up.

Fucking asshole.

Where are they taking me? Who is driving?

I can feel the seat belt against my chest, holding me in place—at least on the outside. Inside I’m screaming, frantically needing to escape. I take short breaths in and out of my nose, trying to calm myself. I can’t afford to panic right now; I need to think.

It can’t be more than thirty minutes later when the car slows, and then comes to a halt. I listen intently over the music trying to figure out what's going on—and then there’s silence. The door opens, and then slams shut.

George? Devon?

Or someone else completely?

In this case, I think I’d rather the known devil.

My door opens what feels like years, but can’t be more than minutes, later, and someone leans over to unbuckle me. I smell a hint of spicy masculine cologne, something light and expensive. Familiar. I lean in, letting the scent envelop me.

I’m gripped by my hips and pulled to the edge of the seat, and then something hard digs into my stomach as he flips me over his shoulder. I flinch at the pain in my ribs from his not-so-gentle handling. He walks quickly, taking long strides, not once faltering.

We climb some stairs, each step making my stomach queasier. His steps are even, until he stops, and I hear the telltale sound of keys clinging against each other. He doesn't put medown even while he unlocks the door. His breathing is steady, he isn’t even panting.

Devon Andre. It’s him; I know it. He throws me onto a soft bed like I'm a sack of potatoes. I bounce once, before falling face-first into the mattress. Without warning, he flips me over and takes the blindfold off.

I stare into green eyes, framed with thick black lashes.

I don't know why I feel relieved. They don't look friendly at all.

Hard, cold eyes. Sinister.

He grins, eyeing me blatantly from head to toe, and it makes me shiver.

“Leighton Moore,” he says in a mocking tone, stuffing the piece of my scarf he used to blindfold me in his jeans pocket. The sound of his voice sends chills up my spine. He leans into my personal space, keeping eye contact the whole time and untying the gag at the back of my head.

The gravity of the situation settles in around me.It's not a dream, is all I keep thinking.This is real.Shit.

He walks out of the room, leaving me alone and helpless. And really fucking confused, because I can’t think of a single reason why he would do this.

Shit. Shit.Shit.I glance around, taking in my location. My eyes scan the walls, frantically looking for a window. When they finally land on one I exhale in relief. Maybe I can get out that way.

Devon walks back in. This time I take him in, dressed in a black T-shirt that hugs his body perfectly, and jeans, his standard. He pulls a knife out of his pocket as he nears the bed, making my breath hitch.

He wouldn't.

Actually, I can't say I have any idea of what he’s capable of, but it seems I’m going to find out. I’ve never heard of himbeing ruthless, but who knows. Obviously he hates me enough; otherwise I wouldn’t even be here.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do something like this to a Moore?” A humorless laugh escapes his full lips. “And now I have the princess herself,” he continues, turning the knife over in his hand. “What do you think I should do to you?”

He comes closer, so close his controlled breath mingles with my shaky one. Locking his gaze to mine, he slides the ice-cold knife up my leg, from my ankle to my knee. I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the tear that slips out, streaking my cheek. His thumb catches the tear, then he brings it to his lips, his intense eyes boring into mine, and he licks it. The sick bastard. The knife continues its trail, sliding up my thigh and under the knee-length skirt I’m wearing. When he lifts the skirt up slightly, another tear escapes.

“Should I go higher?” he asks in a deep, low voice. I squeeze my eyes shut but refrain from shaking my head. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg. The knife gains more pressure but then he suddenly lifts it off my skin, and then I feel it cutting through the plastic tie on my wrists. I open my eyes, following his every move.

“You try anything, and I’ll kill you.” He points the tip of the knife at me when he says it, looking me over from head to toe. Over the years he’s given me a few dirty looks, but he’s never looked at me like this.

With such loathing. Like I’m nothing.

---