Page 16 of Crown Of Blood

I hear one mutter, “Watch her head,” right before crack—pain explodes at my temple as they drag me in.

“Shit—she hit—”

Everything tilts. I taste blood, copper, and adrenaline. My vision swims, spots dancing across it.

They shove me into the seat. I fight back purely on instinct, arms and legs wild. When one of them grabs my wrist to pin me, I jerk away—and my hand slams against the metal doorframe just as it closes.

The door snaps shut on my fingers.

A sharp, searing pain rips through me. I cry out, the sound raw and strangled.

“Careful, Christ—her hand’s in the door!”

The latch pops, and I pull my hand back fast—blood wells along my knuckles. My breath shakes as I cradle it against my chest, vision blurring.

“What do you want from me?” I demand, voice hoarse.

No one answers. The van lurches forward, tires squealing.

My heart pounds so hard it hurts. Every survival instinct screams at once—run, fight, scream—but logic edges in, whispering what I already know.

If they wanted me dead, I’d be dead.

This is something else.

I force my breathing steady, fingers throbbing as I flex them. My head’s pounding, blood dripping down the side of my face.

They think they can scare me.

They think they can use pain to make me quiet.

They have no idea who they’re dealing with.

I lean back against the seat, jaw clenched, pulse slowing.

If I survive this—and I will—I’ll find every single one of them.

And I’ll ruin them.

The van stops. The door slides open, and cold air hits my face.

We’re not at a police station. Not a warehouse, either. A private garage—luxury cars, marble floors, the faint scent of expensive cologne.

Two men step out first, silent and armed—one gestures for me to move.

“Where are we?”

No answer.

I laugh, low and sharp. “Not big on conversation, huh? That makes sense. Real men of mystery.” I roll my eyes and move towards the elevator.

They exchange a look but say nothing, ushering me through a private elevator. My pulse climbs again.

When the doors open, I stop breathing for half a second.

Penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling glass. City lights spilling across polished floors. It smells like cedar and power.

They shove me forwardanyway.