Page 108 of Made for Reign

Ben checks his watch. “How long before Hunt loses his intel advantage?”

“Unknown,” Marcus admits. “His contact is taking a risk feeding us this information. Could go dark any minute.”

“Then we move now.” I slam the trunk closed, and adjust the strap of my rifle. “Stay on comms. Any sign of additional hostiles, we adjust on the fly.”

As we climb into our vehicles—Marcus and I in my truck, Ben following in his—I feel a strange calm settle over me. The rage is still there, burning white-hot beneath the surface, but controllednow. Channeled. Focused on the single objective that matters: bringing Audrey home.

Vega thought he could take what’s mine. Thought his money, his connections, his hired muscle would be enough to keep her from me. He’s about to learn how wrong he is. About to discover what happens when you come between a man and the woman he’d die for.

I start the engine, the powerful V8 roaring to life. In the passenger seat, Marcus checks his weapons one final time. In the rearview, I see Ben’s headlights flare as he pulls in behind us.

“Hang on, Audrey,” I mutter as we pull away from the airstrip, heading toward the lake house where she’s being held. “I’m coming for you.”

TWENTY-FOUR

AUDREY

I waketo darkness and the taste of chemicals in my mouth. My head pounds with each heartbeat, a relentless throb that makes even opening my eyes an exercise in agony.

I try to swallow, but my tongue feels swollen, my throat raw.

Where am I?

I force my eyes open, blinking against the dim light filtering through heavy curtains.

This isn’t Reign’s cabin. This isn’t anywhere I recognize. Panic surges through me, but I push it down, focusing instead on gathering information. The room is large and expensively furnished—a king-sized bed with silk sheets, antique furniture, original artwork on the walls. A prison disguised as luxury.

Memories flash back in disjointed fragments. Stopping for the checkpoint. A sound behind me. Strong hands grabbing me. A sharp pain in my neck. Then nothing.

“Reign,” I whisper, my voice cracking on his name.

I push myself to a sitting position, fighting a wave of nausea that threatens to overwhelm me.

The room spins as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Whatever they injected me with is still coursing through my system, making my movements clumsy and slow. I reach for thebedside lamp, my fingers fumbling with the switch before soft light floods the immediate area.

I recognize this place now. The lakehouse. Gio’s private retreat where he brings fighters to train before big matches. I’ve only been here once, for a promotional photoshoot last summer, but the distinctive cedar paneling and decor are unmistakable.

Which means Gio has me.

I try to stand, but my legs buckle, sending me back onto the mattress. Don’t panic, I tell myself. Think. Reign will realize I’m missing. He’ll come for me. But how will he know where to look?

Whatever they drugged me with hasn’t fully cleared my system. I notice I’m still wearing the same clothes—jeans and the soft blue sweater I chose for traveling. At least no one changed me while I was unconscious.

I wiggle my toes. Where are my shoes? I scan the room but don’t see them. I stand carefully, steadying myself against the bedpost until the room stops spinning.

“Think, Audrey,” I mutter to myself. “Assess the situation.”

The bedroom is approximately two hundred square feet, decorated in cream and gold. A sitting area with two armchairs and a small table occupies one corner. Heavy curtains cover what I assume are windows along one wall. A door that likely leads to a bathroom stands ajar on the opposite wall. The main door is closed, and I’d bet everything it’s locked.

I move to the curtains first, pulling them back to reveal windows that stretch nearly from floor to ceiling. The pristine waters of Lake Cooper stretch before me, reflecting the mountains beyond. It would be beautiful if it weren’t my prison. I try the window latch, unsurprised to find it sealed shut. The glass is thick, probably bulletproof, knowing Gio’s paranoia about security.

The bathroom is next—marble and chrome, stocked with expensive toiletries bearing Gio’s preferred Italian brands. No window. No escape route. Just another beautiful cage.

I return to the bedroom and methodically begin searching for anything I can use as a weapon or tool. The drawers of the bedside table contain nothing useful. Just a Bible and a remote control for the television concealed in an armoire. The closet holds women’s clothing in my size, tags still attached. The sight sends a chill down my spine. Gio planned this. He prepared for my captivity.

The desk in the corner yields better results. In the bottom drawer, beneath a stack of monogrammed stationery, I find a silver letter opener. Not ideal, but better than nothing. I slip it into my back pocket, continuing my search.

A sound at the door freezes me in place. Keys jingling, then the distinct click of a lock turning. I retreat to the center of the room, positioning myself where I can see both the door and the windows. Fight or flight instincts surge, but there’s nowhere to flee. So I prepare to fight.

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