Page 5 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

Twenty minutes later, the driver pulls up to a convenience store. "Sorry, this is as close as I can get. There's road work blocking your street."

I glance out the window, recognizing the 24-hour store about a block from my apartment. "This is fine, thank you."

The store is harshly lit and empty except for a bored cashier scrolling through his phone.

I wander the aisles, suddenly craving comfort food—something sweet and completely devoid of nutritional value.

I select a pint of ice cream, a chocolate bar, and some chips, the kind of indulgence that would have horrified my calorie-counting mother.

"Long night?" the cashier asks as he rings up my purchases.

"You could say that." I pay and take the plastic bag, the weight of my emotional armor slipping now that I'm away from my family's orbit.

Outside, the street is quiet. Most of the shops are closed, their windows dark. I check my phone—just past eleven. The walk home is short, just a block to go. I've made this walk countless times, even later than this.

I'm halfway there when I hear footsteps behind me. I quicken my pace, pulse accelerating. The footsteps speed up too. I reach for my phone, ready to call for help, when a man steps out from an alley ahead of me.

"Hey there, pretty lady." His voice is rough, his stance predatory. "Out kinda late, aren't you?"

I stop, assessing my options. He's between me and my apartment, blocking my path home. Behind me, the footsteps are getting closer.

"I'm just heading home," I say firmly. "Please let me pass."

He smiles, revealing yellowed teeth. "Sure thing. Just hand over your purse and that fancy necklace first."

My hand goes to my throat, where my grandmother's pendant hangs on a silver chain—the one thing I took from my old life when I left. "No."

His expression hardens. "Don't be stupid, bitch. Give me your stuff, or I'll take it."

He lunges forward, grabbing for my purse. I swing the plastic bag containing my ice cream, hitting him in the face. He stumbles back, cursing, then comes at me again, this time with real anger. I scream, hoping someone will hear, but the street remains empty.

His hand closes around my throat, shoving me backward into the brick wall of a building. The pendant digs painfully into my skin as he squeezes. I claw at his hand, panic rising as my airway constricts.

"Should've just given it up," he growls, his breath hot against my face.

The crack of the gunshot is deafening in the quiet street. For a moment, nothing happens—then the pressure on my throat disappears as the man's eyes widen in shock. He crumples forward, and I barely manage to step aside as he falls to the ground.

Blood splatters across my face and dress, hot and metallic. I stare in horror at the growing pool beneath his head, at the neat hole where the bullet entered his skull.

"Fucking amateurs." The voice comes from behind me. "Doesn't know whose territory he's in."

I turn slowly, still pressed against the wall. Three men stand there—two with guns drawn, one speaking into a communication device at his wrist. They're dressed in dark suits, professional and anonymous. One of them I recognize as Victor, the man from Morgan Enterprises. From Blackwood's company.

"Miss Everett," Victor says, his voice calm as if we're meeting for coffee rather than standing over a dead body. "Are you injured?"

I can't answer. Can't move. My mind struggles to process what just happened. A man attacked me, and now he's dead, his blood cooling on the pavement and drying on my skin.

"She's in shock," one of the other men says. "We need to move before someone calls in the gunshot."

Victor approaches me cautiously, hands visible to show he's not a threat. "Miss Everett, we need to leave the area. Mr. Blackwood sent us to ensure your safety."

When I don't respond, he gestures to one of his companions, who approaches with a handkerchief. The man gently wipes some of the blood from my face, his touch impersonal but not unkind.

"Scene needs cleaning," Victor says into his communication device. "One subject down. Package secure but in shock."

Package. Me. I'm the package.

The realization penetrates the fog in my mind, but I still can't speak, can't move. My body has disconnected from my brain, survival instincts shutting down all but the most basic functions.

Victor says something else, but his words don't register. The world has narrowed to the body on the ground, the sticky feeling of blood drying on my skin, the surreal knowledge that I've just witnessed a man being murdered—possibly because of me.

Someone guides me toward a vehicle—the black SUV that's been following me for weeks. I don't resist. Don't speak. Don't think. I simply allow myself to be placed in the back seat, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

The door closes with a soft thud, sealing me in darkness. The vehicle pulls away smoothly, leaving behind a dead man and all semblance of the normal life I thought I'd built.

Through the fog of shock, I register movement outside the windows—streets giving way to a highway, then to a private road winding through dense trees.

We pass through gates with armed guards, then continue up a long driveway to a modern mansion of stone and glass, floodlights illuminating well maintained grounds.