Page 7 of His to Keep
The thing was, Marcus had known she was in love with Rory. Christ, she had agreed to marry the asshole, but Marcus was still driven to have her all to himself.
In a fucked-up turn of events, it was Lana who had played him at his own game of fuck and run – and she ran straight back to Rory.
He typed in his location to the maps app on his phone and sent the details to Jamie. The swoosh of the sent message seemed so loud in the empty home.
He repeatedly tapped the small screen on his phone, urging the tracking software to load but a frustrating icon just flashed instead.
He searched through the clothes and slammed shut empty drawers. A picture of Rory and Lana, from a few years back, lay at his feet.
Scooping up the frame, he gazed at her happy face and shoulder length hair. Those big blue eyes were filled with hope for a happy future. Their fingers were locked and Rory was kissing her cheek like he loved her more than life itself.
Asshole.
Marcus’s stomach churned. He chucked the photo back to the ground and watched it crash to the floor like a brick. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to process the crazy jealousy that plagued his mind.
“You in here?” his brother called from downstairs.
“Up here!” he shouted back. “Coming down!”
Marcus flew down the stairs, jumping off the last three and landing beside his brother. He slapped Jamie on the back.
“Thanks, mate. We need to find her ASAP. That asshole, Rory, has her.”
Jamie was calm and cool, the ying to his out of control yang. “Check the location app for the Lexus.”
“I can’t get it to load!” Marcus growled as he repeatedly tapped the small screen on his mobile phone.
“I’ll try. My internet connection is better than yours.”
The app buffered for a few minutes and then reloaded. “Thank fuck!” he exclaimed.
A blue dot flashed on the map, showing the car near the Lisburn Road on the outskirts of Belfast. “Got it!”
“Is that a house?” Marcus scowled. “Rory lives here.”
Marcus scrolled through his contacts and rang Arthur who answered after two rings, as he always did.
“I’m going to send you through an address. Find out who owns the house. Jamie and I are on our way there. Lana is missing. I think Rory has her.”
5
As soon as Carl left the garage, Lana heard the slide of a bolt and the click of a lock turning.
She scrambled to her feet, staggering sideways and trying to balance without the use of her arms. Running to the window, she scanned the back garden.
Mature trees at the rear sheltered the property and offered privacy, the perfect place to hide a hostage. Her pulse pounded in her throat as she ran around the edges of the walls, trying to find something that would puncture the duct tape.
The plaster was smooth with no jaggy ridges or jutting nails. She dropped to her knees, trapped in a concrete prison with no way to escape.
After a few long minutes of isolation, the mechanical click of the lock shattered the silence. Carl had returned. The door slammed behind him as he strode inside.
He had changed into casual clothes and wore a pale green tee, stretched tightly around his lean torso and tucked into grey track pants. In any other setting he would appear handsome and approachable, but right now, he was a predator on a mission.
The sickly-sweet stench of cologne, combined with tobacco, made her stomach heave. She backed away, shivering with the prickles that darted across her back.
His gaze bounced around the room and he tugged at the neck of his tee, then he paced the floor like his thoughts were spiralling out of control. He dragged his fingers through his hair, back and forth.
The lines on his brow creased so deeply that his brows nearly met in the middle. Stomping towards her, he slotted both hands under his armpits and stood with his feet wide.
