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The second I moved off the bed, someone rattled the doorknob. I’d at least had the foresight to lock it.
Thank God for small miracles.
Before I could react, the door cracked and splintered open as a loud thump sounded on the light wood.
A weird, garbled squeak escaped my mouth. I quickly covered it, and my teeth clenched to stop any other sounds from escaping me.
I had to hide.
Quickly.
No one kicked in a door for no reason.
Fuck.
What was happening?
I dove to the far side of the bed and onto the floor, cursing that I couldn’t crawl under it. Although, in every freaking horror movie, the person that hid under the bed always got killed.
Why didn’t my brain work faster to find a better spot?
My heart hammered against my ribs so loud I was sure whoever was out there could hear it. Sweat dampened my forehead and slicked my palms. I wiped them on my jeans, trying to calm my ragged breathing.
How thefuckwas I supposed to get out of here?
Before I could make a move, heavy footsteps pounded into the room.
I had nowhere else to go.
Please don’t find me. Please don’t find me.
The mantra repeated in my head, a desperate prayer to whatever higher power might be listening. Each thud of the boots on the floor sent jolts of terror through me.
A large man in a black outfit appeared above me and pointed his gun at my face. “Hands where I can see them.”
Curled up on the floor frozen, one part of my brain told me to comply, but the other had deep dived to where only fear remained, and I couldn’t move. My muscles locked up, refusing to obey the screaming command from my brain.
This is it. This is how I die.
Regret filled me. Regret for waiting so long to tell Peter how I felt and for letting Killian stay away for the last ten years. Regret for all the words left unsaid, all the chances not taken.
“Ma’am hands in the air where I can see them.Now.”That last sharp word propelled me into action and I raised my trembling hands. “Stand slowly.”
“Okay,” I squeaked, not even sure he could hear me. My voice sounded foreign; small and scared.
“Keep your hands up,” he barked, his gun still leveled on me when they dipped.
It took me a few seconds to figure out how to stand without using my hands to push myself off the floor. In a far-off place in my brain, all I could think of was how ridiculous I must look, awkwardly rolling on the floor. Eventually, I landed on my knees and pressed my shaky legs upright, praying they stayed put. He had to know I wasn’t a threat.
The man in black approached while the two others fanned out on either side of him. One moved forward to yank my hands behind my back, and, before I could shift, heavy duty zip ties were applied to my wrists. The bite of the plastic against my skin suddenly made this nightmare terrifyingly real.
I blinked owlishly at them, my mind struggling to process what was happening. This couldn’t be real. Any moment now, I’d wake up, safe in my bed, far away from Killian and this mess.
As the man pushed me along and out of the room, it occurred to me that Peter might not be the reason Jareth fired me. When he found out I’d been arrested, there was no way he’d retain me, regardless of our discussion in his office.
Now that my fear receded, the tiniest bit of sound came back to me. Voices yelling along the hall, asking if they’d found something. The crackling from the radio attached to the man escorting me off the boat.
A dark bag was placed over my head, and in that moment I knew these men were not the police.