Somehow, I end up dozing off in the Devils’ van, despite the awkward position I’m in. I’m awakened by the sound of the car door sliding open. Someone cuts the tie binding my ankles. I’m unbuckled, and then pulled out of the seat and hoisted over someone’s shoulder like a damn sack of potatoes.

“We’re at the dropoff,” Lazarus grunts. He carries me a few feet, then dumps me unceremoniously on the ground. I stagger a bit, the foot with the broken heel slipping a little. He pulls me forward, and I fight him a little, but of course it’s useless. From listening to the sounds around me, I know there are at least three Devils here, counting whoever is driving the van. I can’t talk, or fight, and I can barely walk.

I’m stood up, Lazarus’ hand clenching my upper arm. I continue to struggle, just because I can, and almost manage to connect my foot with his ankle. He shakes me roughly enough to rattle my teeth, and I stop.

Footsteps approach in the gravel. More than one set.

“What the fuck is this, a hostage situation?” a male voice growls.

“Oz told us she wouldn’t come willingly,” Lazarus replies. “We decided it was better not to give her the choice.”

“By fucking kidnapping her?” the voice asks, sounding angry. Whoever it is has the hint of an accent — Irish, I think? Or Scottish? I’m not sure.

The men continue to argue back and forth. I’m taking it all in, trying to figure out who I’m being given to. My stomach is starting to churn with fright again, but I work to force the fear down.

“I’m going to make a phone call to Oz,” the accented voice snarls. I hear him step away from us. There’s no banter or conversation among the others as they wait. I strain to hear the conversation between the man and my father, but he’s too far away. All I can make out is the frustrated, clipped tone of his voice.

When the man comes back, I’m handed over to him by the Devils. I struggle again, but lose my balance and almost fall. The zip ties cut painfully into my wrists, and I cry out in spite of myself. When I’m standing upright again, the man swears under his breath. Then, suddenly, the zip tie is off.

“I’ve let you loose for now, but don’t make me tie you back up again, you understand?” he murmurs, his voice low and close to my ear. In spite of myself, I shiver a little.

I try to mouth a response around the rag. For a second, he doesn’t say anything. When he does, his tone is tinged with disgust and disbelief. “Jaysus, you can’t be serious?”

Before I realize what’s happening, his hand is reaching under the hood, pulling the rag from my mouth. I take the first deep breath I’ve had in hours, and then realize my brief opening. Quickly calculating, I pull back with one foot and thrust forward, try to kick him hard in the shin. Unfortunately, I’m too wobbly and off-balance to connect.

Instead of being angry, though, he seems more amused. “Now then, is that any way to say thank you?” he teases me. This infuriates me.

“Fuck you,” I spit.

“That’s better.” The asshole actually laughs at me. I’m too pissed to respond.

A few minutes later, we’re in another vehicle, and I’m belted in securely, with the hood still over my head. I’m in completely uncharted territory. The only thing I know is that these men aren’t the Devils, and that Oz has given me to them. I’m so angry at him, at them, and particularly at the man with the accent that I want to scream, to lash out, to scratch and punch and maybe even kill. But I know I’m in too helpless a position to do much of anything right now. I sit and fume, planning ten different scenarios in my head, all of which involve inflicting great, lingering pain on every single one of these men, including my father.

About half an hour into the drive, I decide to test how much attention these men are paying to me. Slowly, as slowly as I can bear it, I start to inch the hand closest to the window up toward my neck.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“What?” I snap back. “I have an itch.”

“So practice mind over matter.”

Cocky bastard. I huff in frustration and sit back, trying to get into a comfortable position. My feet are aching from the heels, and still a little swollen from the zip ties, and I take turns flexing them one by one.

“Why the hell do you still have these things on?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” I spit, “But until recently I wasn’t exactly in a position to take them off.”

“Well, you are now.”

“I don’t have any other shoes,” I point out.

“Yeah, I noticed there aren’t any trainers in your shoulder bag,” he says wryly.

At first I resist, but then realize the only person I’m hurting is myself. Grudgingly, I tip forward, reaching down to slip the straps of the sandals over my heels. The relief is instantaneous. I can’t suppress a sigh as I take a moment to massage first one foot, then the other.

“Feel better?”

Goddamnit. I hate having my every move watched like this. Especially when I can’t see a damn thing.

“Are you seriously going to make me wear this hood forever?”

“Not forever. Just until we get where we’re going.”

“And then what?”

“Then there won’t be anything for you to see.”

My stomach flops unpleasantly. Mind racing, I picture myself locked up in a basement somewhere, with no windows and now way to get out. I’m already feeling a little car sick, and the fear makes it worse. I start to take deep breaths again, willing myself not to throw up.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine.” I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing this is getting to me.

“Good, good,” he says, clearly amused. “Settle back and enjoy your flight, then.”

Fuck you! my mind screams at him. Huffily, I turn away from his voice, making a point to give him my back to make my message clear. But as I do, I feel a slight tug around my neck, and then the whisper of something sliding down my chest and under my dress.

“Oh, no!” I gasp. Quickly, I reach up, fast enough that the man barks at me.

“No sudden moves!”

Instantly, I freeze, then continue more slowly. I start to reach a hand inside my cleavage, but suddenly I’m grabbed roughly around my wrist. I gasp as his fingers lock around my tender flesh.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he growls suspiciously.

“Nothing!” I stammer. “I swear! I’ve just… my necklace! I think the clasp broke. It slipped down inside my bra.” My cheeks begin to flame.

“You sure you’re not hiding a knife of something in there, looking for your chance to pull it out?” he replies, his voice hard and knowing. “It won’t go well for you to cross me, girl.”

“I was wearing a necklace!” I try again desperately. “Didn’t you notice it? Can’t you see it’s gone?” My voice breaks. “Please! It means a lot to me! I can’t lose it!” Under the hood, my eyes fill with tears, and I’m almost grateful my face is covered so he can’t see me start to cry. “Please, just let me get it!”

“Sorry, can’t take that chance.” I hear his body shift.

“But…”

“Keep your hands where they are.”

I open my mouth to try again, but as I do, the touch of a hand on my neck makes me jump and freeze in confusion. Warm, strong fingers slide against my skin, moving aside the fabric of my dress. I want to protest — to pull away — but the man’s touch, rough and soft at the same time, makes me shiver. Moving lower, he pauses. My breath catches in my throat as he cups my breast, grazing my nipple.

I stifle a moan.

I don’t know if the fear I’ve been feeling for the last couple of hours is making my nerve endings more sensitive, but the touch of this stranger’s hand sends a jolt of pleasure through me that takes me completely by surprise. Somehow, suddenly, I’m instantly wet. Shamefully turned on.

The buzzing in my ears is nearly deafening as the man slowly withdraws his hand. The whisper of warm metal against my skin is like an echo of his presence.

“Here,” he mutters. He takes my hand and drops the necklace into my palm.

I hold onto it tightly for the rest of the ride. The little arms of the starfish prick my skin, just painful enough to be reassuring. Just painful enough to let me focus on the sensation of it — and to try to forget about what just happened when my captor touched me.