Page 81 of Fake Dark Vows
With my pulse skipping erratically, I try moving various parts of my body. I can clench my thighs, and I discover that I’m sitting on something hard. Something solid. A chair? I move my focus to my arms, rubbing the soft flesh of my upper arms against what must be the back of a seat.
Someone has bound me to a chair, but they haven’t stolen the engagement ring. So, what do they want?
The crashing water. There are fountains outside some of the hotels along the strip, but none of them sound like this. This could almost be a waterfall.
A numb chill spreads through me, and it isn’t just from the cold.
The email. Brandon’s trip to Idaho—more specifically to American Falls. Sam mentioned a warehouse in his email, a listed building near the falls. Near Snake River. Nowhere near Vegas.
Why can’t I remember what happened?
I spoke to Damon, who told me about his wager with Brandon. I got up and left because I couldn’t face him, couldn’t bear to hear the lies, to see in his eyes that I meant nothing more to him than a silly bet against his brother.
Outside, I started walking back to the hotel. A cab pulled up alongside me. Two guys got out, and the driver asked me if I needed a ride.
The rest is a blank.
“Help!” Louder this time.
I try putting my weight on my feet and tilting my body forward, but I can’t even raise the back legs of the seat off the floor.
This must be a bad dream. I’ll wake up any moment now and laugh about it when I realize that none of it is real. Who would abduct me—Rose Carter? Only my name isn’t Carter now, it’s Weiss, and I already know that Brandon has enemies.
Panic turns to cold icy sludge inside my stomach.
Who are these people?
What do they want from me?
Do they think that Brandon will come and rescue me, or pay a substantial ransom for my safe return? I can picture him now, returning to the suite in the Venetian, pouring brandy into a glass and drinking it on the balcony alone, convinced that I’ve gone running home again because I can’t handle the drama of being connected to a Weiss.
What if he refuses to pay up? What will happen to me then?
“Help!” I call out again. Fresh tears spill when I hear my voice bouncing off the walls of wherever I’m being held. No one can hear me.
I hear a click, and my heart stops. When it starts up again, my heartbeat is loud enough to drown out the gushing water, but not loud enough to stop me from hearing the footsteps coming closer.
“Help!” I shriek. “Help me, someone!”
A hand clamps around my mouth from behind. I can smell cologne, not warm and musky like Brandon’s but sharper, citrussy, mingled with something sour. Sweat. Garlic. Spice.
Lips brush my ears, and a man’s voice says, “On the count of three, I’m going to remove my hand, and you’re going to remain silent.”
I’m struggling to breathe—his hand is smothering my nose and mouth. I squirm, trying to turn my face to one side so that I can draw a breath, and something cold and sharp presses into the side of my neck.
“Let’s try again. You’re going to remain silent or else speaking will never be an option for you again. Do you understand?”
I try to say yes, but my lips and gums stick to his fleshy hand, and all that comes out is a garbled sound.
“Good.” He must smile because another nauseating waft of garlic blows across my face. “One… Two… Three.” He follows through, removing his hand from my face and stepping away.
My head sinks forward, and I suck in great gulps of cold, stale air.
More footsteps. The man stands in front of me and yanks the blindfold from my face.
I blink my surroundings into focus. I’m in a cavernous, high-ceilinged warehouse. Three plastered walls are slick with dampness, the windows dingy with years’ worth of grime, allowing minimal daylight through, and there are puddles on the floor. Tall metal shelving units line the walls, all empty. The fourth wall is hidden behind a black curtain.
A scream forms at the base of my throat.