Page 53 of The Billionaires' Gamble
Footsteps echo across the floor, and my stomach tries to send up the coffee I had earlier.
“Come on, princess,” says a voice I don’t recognize. It’s deep, sort of raspy, like he’s smoked a lot of cigarettes or drank too much whiskey. “I know you’re awake. Saw you on the camera.”
Fudgecakes.
I play possum for a second longer and silently fume. How dare he call me that?
He grabs my wrists, and my stomach plummets. There’s a small snicking sound, and then I’m free.
I take a deep breath, open my eyes, and rub my tender wrists. My thumb catches on the charm bracelet Alex gave me in Paris. I immediately finger the little silver Eiffel Tower. I would give anything to be back there with him right now, safe and sound.
“Don’t make me carry you,” he clips out, and I still can’t place his accent.
He’s wearing boots, dark gray cargo pants, and a black t-shirt. I avoid looking at his face, but his body is honed, and I have no doubt he’s had plenty of training that will help him get his way.
Grabbing the pole, I get to my feet. My legs feel like gelatin. How long was I out?
Blood rushes through parts that are long asleep, stinging my ass with pins and needles before reaching my toes. I don’t give him the satisfaction of wincing or gasping at the uncomfortable sensations. At least I’m vertical and free.
Why is it so hard to keep my breathing steady? I feel like a runaway train, sucking in breath after breath, barely exhaling. It’s like I can’t get enough oxygen.
“Come on. No one’s gonna hurt you.”
I press a hand against my stomach. “Then why kidnap me?”
“That’s above my pay grade.”
Okay…
Another deep breath.
“Surely you know who you’re working for.”
“Come on.” He waves me forward, his tone biting with impatience.
I step forward, keeping my gaze on the floor, not wanting to press my luck too much. At least he’s not tying me back up, which is odd.
Don’t think about it.
My stomach sours, and I desperately grab hold of any word that pops into my head so that I don’t think of what his unusual behavior means for my future.
Succulent.
Stiletto.
Circuit board.
Survive.
Everyone knows if your kidnapper doesn’t hide their identity, you aren’t making it out alive.
My feet feel like they’re suction cupped to the floor, making every step harder.
The man directs me through the door he just came through, down a hall filled with pipes, tubes, and wires, and then up a setof steep stairs. He follows at a careful distance, almost like he expects me to fight back. Then why not tie me up again?
I don’t get it. None of this makes sense. Acid burns my throat, and I swallow, willing the discomfort away. I do my box breathing technique because now is not the time for a panic attack.
Not. The. Time.
