I wake to the feel of something being shoved in my mouth and latched around the back of my head. I reach for my face, but my hands are bound. My ankles too.
What the fuck?
Alarm bells are clanging in my head when my eyes blink open in time to see a masked man, all in black, just before he ties a blindfold around my eyes. He knots the silky fabric tight behind my head and I scream, but the rubber ball in my mouth stifles the sound.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
I struggle, kicking out with my bound feet. Useless.
My muffled screams come in earnest when I’m lifted off the bed and lowered onto some sort of cushion, my arms and legs folded into place. Canvas fabric surrounds me as the sound of a zipper penetrates the ringing in my brain.
Oh my God, I’m being zipped into a bag.
My entire body is jostled when the bag rises from the floor. A low grunt is the only noise in the room as the man starts from the room.
That’s when the reality of the situation hits me. Holy. Fuck. I’m being kidnapped.
Having a billionaire for a brother and more money than most people could imagine in my own right, I know I’m a target for kidnapping. My best defense against this, in my opinion, has always been the anonymity presented by living in the city. I can go mostly anywhere and not be recognized.
But here in Gold Haven, I don’t have that luxury.
My mind spins in a hundred different directions. Is it some redneck from the bar? A few of them looked like they wanted to make me their backwoods bride. Someone who wants a ransom? An enemy of Creighton’s? Who?
And where the hell is my security?
I bounce against the hard body of the man as we make our way down what I assume has to be the stairs.
Shit, if he gets me out that door, I’m screwed.
All the horrific possibilities rip through my brain. White slavery. Rape. Torture. Ransom.
The back door creaks open, and I kick my bound legs against the canvas fabric, wriggling for everything I’m worth. A heavy smack lands on the outside of the bag in the vicinity of my hip.
The asshole just hit me. He’s going to die.
Between the temperature change and the squeaking hinges, I know I’m outside. My chances of getting out of this unscathed are dropping with every fraction of a second.
The acrid scent of exhaust hits my nostrils moments later as I hear an idling engine and the sound of a door opening. I’m lifted higher before the bag is lowered onto another padded surface. I struggle, but can’t find anything to grab with my bound hands.
The doors slam shut, and I know I’m fucked.
My name is Greer Karas, and I’ve just been kidnapped.
The drive is short, but the panic building in every cell of my body multiplies exponentially with each mile. Taking deep breaths, I try to push down the hysteria that’s bubbling up. I need to find my cool, capable self, because I know fear isn’t going to help.
But fuck that rational stuff—I’m in some kind of bag in the back of a van or an SUV. I run my hands along the inside of the zipper, my nails picking at the teeth, trying to tear it open. No luck. The car slows and speeds up. Turns left and right. I’m completely lost.
Shit. Even if I can get out of this bag and kick out the taillights like that Dateline episode suggested, how am I going to ever find my way back?
Repositioning my body, I use my feet to push at the zipper, hoping to rip it open. I have to get out. Nothing budges. My scream of frustration is muted almost to nothing by the gag. No sound comes from the driver of the vehicle.
Or maybe he’s the passenger? Whoever he is, he’s going to die a slow and painful death when my brother gets his hands on him.
The vehicle finally slows to a halt. Other noises come from outside, and I hope like hell it’s people who can help me. I’m in Gold Haven, Kentucky, for God’s sake, not Rio or Tijuana. This can’t happen here!
Fear grips my muscles with paralyzing claws as the rear door opens and a whoosh of colder air fills the back of the vehicle. No words are spoken when my bag is tugged closer to the door and hefted once again.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I scream against my gag, clawing and kicking at the inside of the bag. The sound of airplanes sends bolts of terror spiraling through me.
Holy. Fuck.
No one is ever going to see or hear from me again. I’m going to be sold to some fat sheik like in the movie Taken. My brother is amazing, but he’s no Liam Neeson. Maybe he knows Liam? Hysteria is jumbling my thoughts, and my fear edges into full-on breakdown territory.
I’m going to die. I’m never going to see my family again. I’m never going to see Banner. I’m never going to know my baby niece. I’m never going to see Cav again and demand an explanation.
And that’s when I hear the voice. His voice. I freeze.
“We ready for takeoff?”
“In just a few minutes. You need help with the bag, Mr. Westman?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
Cav.
Relief sweeps through me, followed immediately by rage.
I’m going to kill him.
Kill. Him. Dead.
All the adrenaline that’s been tearing through my veins over the last who-knows-how-many minutes morphs into the most vicious anger I’ve ever felt.
I’m. Going. To. Kill. Him.
With my bare hands.
My tirade is muted by the gag, but my struggles become violent.
He lands a slap on the bottom of the bag, this time on my ass. “Stop.”
I still, but only because I’m saving my energy to go nuclear on him as soon as he unzips this thing.
How could he do this? I’ve never felt such gut-wrenching fear. Why is it that every encounter with Cav Westman, or Casso, or whoever the hell he is, drags more emotion out of me than any other encounter over the course of my life? It’s insane.
He’s insane.
And I’m insane for falling for him so blindly.
The word falling grabs me by the throat. I’m not falling. I’m getting over him.
Or I’m going to just kill him.