Page 8 of Wicked Dove
My lips part, but nothing comes out before he places his hand over my face, fingers splayed across my eyelids, and darkness claims me again.
My eyes widenwith panic as I regain consciousness. I’m quickly trying to catch up as my mind recalls the last thing I remember before everything went dark again. We’re no longer in the abandoned warehouse. The dimly lit room has been replaced with white-washed walls and a single door to my left across the room. There’s no window, nothing else—just me, the stiff wooden chair beneath me, a similar one on the other side of the bare table, and a man.
Not just any man.
Mr. Brown Leather Jacket.
Only now, the jacket is draped over the chair, leaving him looming over me in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
I stare in wonder at the cords of his veins running up his forearms and disappearing beneath the material, instead of acknowledging the danger I could be in. That Iamin.
He balls his hands into fists, resting his knuckles on the table between us as he glares at me.
“You’re awake,” he states as I run my hand down my face.
I have no idea how much time has gone by, all I know is I feel groggy as hell and it’s all their fault.
“I could have walked here,” I mutter, and he scoffs, shaking his head in a mix of amusement and irritation.
“No, you couldn’t have.”
My bare feet press against the hardwood floor. “I would have lost the heels, but I definitely could have,” I insist, attempting to tame the purple waves twisted in every direction on my head. I think it’s fair to conclude that I look like a mess.
As I go to fold my arms over my chest, admitting defeat, he grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet.
“Hey,” I gasp, stumbling over myself as he drags me across the room. I push at his arm with my spare hand, trying to worm my way free of him, but his grip is tighter than Johnny’s was. The air whooshes from my lungs at the reminder of the man I killed, but I don’t get to linger on that fact for long as he reaches the door.
The lock snaps open and a moment later, the wood swings outward with me quickly following behind.
“Ah!”
A scream escapes my throat, desperation draining the color from my cheeks as I hang in the air.
With one hand still firmly holding my upper arm, his other hand is on the door frame of the room while I continue to scream with panic.
There’s nothing beneath my feet. Well, I’m sure there is, but nothing I can see from my current position. It’s just… blue skies and dotted clouds.
What the hell?
“Help me!” I scream, painfully aware that he’s the only thing preventing me from falling to my imminent death, but he’s also the reason I’m in danger.
His nostrils flare, frustration getting the better of him as he heaves me back inside. The door slams shut behind me as he releases his hold, and I skid across the floor, friction burning across my knees and palms.
Scrambling back, I quickly get to my feet and rush toward the chair I was in a moment ago. I don’t sit in it, though. Instead, I plant my hands on the back, ready to use it as a weapon if needed.
Definitely necessary.
“Where the hell are we?” I snap, my chest quickly rising and falling with each breath. A shiver runs down my spine as he slowly prowls toward me, disdain in his eyes and a sneer on his lips.
“The Sanctum,” he finally declares as he mirrors my stance behind the chair across from me, and I frown in confusion.
“Never heard of it,” I grumble, and he huffs.
“I don’t imagine you have.” His tone is condescending, igniting the fire inside of me.
“How so?” I push. I can come to the conclusion myself that I don’t know something, but the second someone else tells me I don’t, I’m hell bent on proving them wrong. This is no different.
“Take a seat, Miss Blackwood. I really don’t have all day.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him how I definitely don’t have time for this either, but he raises a pointed eyebrow at me. “Sit,” he repeats, the warning clear.
