Page 4

Three

Ophelia

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I glance at the man in the black balaclava, grip the steering wheel, and shift the car into drive. I bite my lip to hold back a sob as I reverse the car out of the space. He’s got a gun. It’s pointed right at me. The spot it’s aimed at burns as I head toward the gates.

Dad can be an asshole, but at least he prepared me for this. Keep calm. Do what they say. Don’t give them a reason to hurt you. I’ll get you home safe, princess.

“Straight out of the gate. You’ll see a silver car. Pull in behind it.”

Sweat breaks out all over my body. What is he going to do to me? Throw me in his trunk? My body spasms, a panicked shudder, and the car lurches to the side before I get control of myself again.

“Watch it!” I jerk again at the guy’s growled instruction. Why is he talking like that? Does he think the weird, gravelly Batman voice makes him scarier? The gun does that without the theatrics .

He keeps the gun trained on me as he picks up my purse from the passenger footwell. He checks for my cell, then throws it into the back seat.

Calm, calm, calm. He’s taking me for ransom. It’s a hazard of being a Calder; everyone knows my dad is loaded. Dad will pay the guy, then wipe him off the face of the earth once I’m safe. I just need to survive until then.

Oh God, what if he hurts me?

Tears blur my eyes as I pull up behind the silver car. I could run. Make a dash for it into the woodland or back toward the facility. But that goes against what Dad drilled into me and isn’t likely to work. This guy has a gun and, from the brief look I got at him, seems fit. He’d catch me easily.

No. Stick to the plan.

“Turn away. Hands behind your back.” I do and, though I’m expecting it, yelp as he fastens something hard around my wrists, cinching them tight. Shit. Terror drenches my nerves as I pull against them. Now I can’t defend myself. The vulnerability opens a fresh chasm in my chest.

What if it isn’t a ransom? What if he’s a serial killer and I’ve just let him cuff me like a sheep walking into a slaughterhouse?

Before I can process what’s happening, the man pulls my hair up and wraps something around my mouth. Tape. Panic overwhelms my senses, and I thrash, yanking my hair at the roots.

“Stop that. Behave, and you won’t be harmed. I’m sure Daddy will pay more for you in one piece.”

A ransom. It’s a ransom. He wants money. I force myself to still. I’ll survive. He’s not going to chop me into pieces. I just need to get through the next few hours.

Or days. Oh God, what if it’s days? Days in some basement.

Calm. Fucking. Down. You’re a Calder. Act like it .

It’s maybe the first time I’ve ever been grateful for Dad’s voice in my head. Act like it. I can do that. I drag air in through my nose, short, ragged breaths.

The man jumps out of the passenger door. If he hadn’t handcuffed me, I could have bolted. God, I wish he was that stupid. I jerk back as he wrenches the driver's door open. Black jeans, black long sleeve, black balaclava. A Halloween costume of a bad guy. All he needs is a stripey sack with “Swag” written on it.

The gun in his hand stops it being funny.

“Out. Don’t even think of running for it.”

That wasn’t as growly, or as deep. Something prickles right at the back of my mind, a tingle of something, but it’s gone before I can catch it.

“Move. Now.” Batman again. I try to push down the uneasy feeling as I wriggle my way out of the car, struggling to balance with my hands bound even though my heels are sensible. I used to take my shoes off to drive, but Dad said it was a trashy habit, so I learned to cope.

At least they give me a little extra height, so I can look my captor in the eyes without craning my neck too much. He’s at least six feet tall.

The prickle of wrongness grows, spiky in my gut as I stare at him. Why hasn’t he stuffed me in the trunk yet? Why is he just looking at me? I glance at his hands. No tattoos, no chunky gold rings, and the skin is smooth. The nails, clean and neat.

Nothing about this guy screams gangster, and I’ve met enough of them to know what they look like. Although Dad keeps me sheltered from the shady side of the family, he can’t lock it away completely. I’ve seen the guys he uses to enforce his power, and they don’t have clean, manicured hands. They don’t put on fake voices to sound tough.

And they wouldn’t freeze in the middle of a kidnapping .

As if he’s read my thoughts, the man surges forward, grabs my hair, and drags me toward the waiting car. I stumble along to keep from falling and catch the car’s badge as we pass. Tesla. Seriously? He came to kidnap me in a Tesla? It doesn’t feel right. None of it feels like it should, and as he throws open the rear door, my banked panic breaks free.

I yank my head back, but his grip is strong, and it just wrenches my scalp hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. I flail against his hold, but it’s too little, too late. If I ever had a chance, I missed it. He manhandles me into the back passenger footwell.

I kick out with my foot and must have hit something soft, as he yells, “Shit!” It’s a victory, but a small, useless one. I try to sit up, but before I can, he’s on me, wrapping tape around my legs. It’s rushed and clumsy, but it works, trapping me like an Egyptian mummy.

All my flailing has left me face down, and I don’t have a shred of leverage to get back up again. My face presses into the carpet. The spotlessly clean carpet, which still has the lingering smell of the chemicals they use when they valet the car’s interior. I should know. Dad has a man come once a week and do every car top to bottom.

He’s taking me for ransom, and he got a $300 valet service to make sure his car was nice for the occasion?

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

It’s a gong in my head, ramming home just how unlikely all of this is. The prickle grows into a wrecking ball, slicing my guts. He isn’t what he’s pretending to be. This isn’t what it seems. It’s a trap, and I walked right into it.

The door slams, then he gets into the driver's seat. There’s no warning, no rumbling engine announcing our departure. The car just lurches forward, and I roll with the motion, unable to stop myself .

From this new angle, I can see the seat back, which looks suspiciously like custom gray leather. This isn’t a normal Tesla; it’s a top-of-the-line model. Maybe he stole it? I can’t make myself believe it, though. He feels like he belongs in this car.

“This won’t be a comfy trip, I’m afraid,” he says in his phony growl. Why is he talking to me? It’s not like I can talk back. “I’ve thought about this day for a long time.”

He what? Ice cascades along my nerves. He’s thought about this? Oh no. Oh no, no, no. That can’t be good.

He turns on some music. Not the radio—smooth, electronic beats. The sort of music that makes me think of sipping cocktails on a beach, sun baking my skin. He’s a smooth driver, and thank God, because if he wasn’t, I’d be black and blue.

Maybe the cops will pull him over and find me here. Drag this asshole away to jail. But it doesn’t seem likely. It’s guys speeding in beat-up old junkers that get stopped, not a man in a high-end Tesla driving like an old lady.

I focus on the small amount of movement I still have. The handcuffs are a dead loss—no chance I’m getting out of them. But what about my legs? I shift them back and forth, small movements, but the tape doesn’t loosen one iota. My shoulders ache from the awkward position, and something hard—maybe a seat runner—is jabbing my hip. How much longer?

Are we there yet?

It strikes me as funny, even trussed up like a Christmas ham, but the tape around my mouth muffles every sound. The pain slowly grows as minutes tick by. I try to see out of the windows, but all I can see is the sky. Nothing helpful.

“Nearly there.”

The man’s voice has slipped into a higher register again, and my nerves spring to life, overwhelming even my growing discomfort. That voice. I know it but can’t place it. It’s not an immediate memory—it’s distant—but the more I replay it in my head, the more sure I am.

The car pulls to a halt, and the man’s voice rings out again. From the clipped sentences punctuated by pauses, he’s talking to someone on the phone.

“Where are you?”

“Can you do me a favor and not ask any questions?”

“I need you to get Kendrick and meet me at the gate. Call me when you’re there. Can you do that?”

Kendrick? The gate? None of it makes sense, but the wash of familiarity eclipses the words. He didn’t disguise his voice that time, and I was right. I know it from somewhere.

Where? Where is it from? Think!

A long time ago. College, maybe? I run through the few men my brother permitted me to get close to. No. None of them. Earlier, then. Belvedere Prep? An image flickers at the back of my mind. A boy, dark blond hair grown out in a straggly Kurt Cobain tangle, wearing a black hoodie and baggy jeans.

His finger jabbing at me. “This is your fault, you evil bitch. You drove her to this. You fucking—”

Then my brother’s fist slamming into his face.

No. God, no.

The car moves again, and I twist against the tape, but it’s useless. This isn’t a ransom. That voice…Maggie’s brother.

Maggie Grange.

Nauseating guilt swamps me as I think her name. My fault. Her death was my fault. Her brother. I can’t remember his name. Why can’t I remember his goddamn name?

He has me. He has me, and he’s taking me somewhere with a fucking gate. Sweat coats my skin as I struggle to breathe. It was easy a moment ago. Why is it so hard now? The car slows, and I try to claw the ragged edges of my composure together .

I’m a Calder. Wherever this is, whoever he was talking to, it doesn’t matter. My family name is my shield, the thing that can save me from whatever revenge he has planned.

I’ve thought about this day for a long time.

I bet he has. Almost ten years.

Keep. It. Together.

The door opens, and light spills in. Maggie’s brother grabs me and hauls me out of the car. My knees thud on the concrete as he places me on the ground, and I twist to get a look at him.

What the hell?

For a single, blissful moment, I’m sure I’m wrong. I must have mixed his voice up with someone else, because there’s no way the man I’m looking at is Maggie’s brother.

His dark blond hair is styled into a preppy sweep. He must have taken the time to fix it after he pulled off the balaclava. Piercing blue eyes glare at me from a sharp, defined face. His jawline could cut glass.

The image of the scruffy boy I’ve carried in my head shimmers, dissolving into the man looming over me. Then someone gasps, and I tear my eyes away. We’re not alone.

A group of people is watching us. I straighten my spine as best I can and mumble through the gag. If they realize who I am, maybe they’ll let me go. Maybe they’ll—

Maggie’s brother speaks, and the words brand themselves into my soul.

“This is the woman I’m taking as my Ward. I’m claiming her now, and she’s seen the Compound, so she can’t leave. By the ancient law of the Brotherhood, she’s mine.”