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Emery

T he silence after a swim was always the best part.

Muscles humming, lungs burning, heart still thundering from the last lap—it was the kind of silence that came with peace.

With control.

I toweled off my hair, tossed the damp cloth over my shoulder, and headed toward the locker room. The humid air curled around my ankles like steam off the water.

It was after hours. The whole facility was empty, lights dimmed. Just how I liked it.

Private.

Safe.

When I signed the contract, they promised top-tier training, total seclusion, no cameras, and no press.

But they forgot to mention the men with guns.

I heard the sound as I turned the corner—just a whisper of fabric and a sharp intake of breath.

Too fast. Too deliberate.

I froze.

Listened.

Then— footsteps.

Heavy. Muffled. Not trying to be silent.

They weren’t worried about me hearing them.

Because they didn’t think I was a threat.

Wrong.

I grabbed the first thing I could—one of the metal kickboards from the supply rack—and backed toward the hallway exit.

Then I saw the first man.

Black shirt. Military stance. Headset in one ear.

Not security.

Definitely not staff.

He smiled when he saw me.

Bad smile.

“Ms. Blake,” he said, voice smooth. “We’ll need you to come with us.”

My pulse spiked.

“What for?” I asked, eyes scanning, calculating. “Coach forget to tell me about my fan club?”

Another man appeared behind him.

And a third stepped in from the left.

Shit.

“Now, please,” he said again, stepping closer.

I threw the kickboard.

Not because I thought it would stop him.

Because it distracted him just long enough for me to run.

I bolted barefoot across the tile, heart slamming against my ribs, every step echoing like thunder in the empty corridor.

I made it ten feet before one of them caught up and grabbed my arm.

So I turned —and slammed my elbow into his jaw.

He staggered.

Another came from behind.

I kicked.

Screamed.

Fought like hell.

But there were too many.

Too fast.

I hit the ground, knees scraping against tile, arms pinned.

“You’re making this harder than it has to be,” one of them muttered.

I spit blood onto the floor and looked him dead in the eye.

“Good.”

Then everything went dark.