Page 23 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

Rachel’s whole world was nothing but shadows and silence, a void where time and space had lost all meaning.

She was barely aware of anything at all—and about to slip back into complete unconsciousness—when a sudden creaking sound followed by a soft thud brought her back from the brink.

They were small noises that might have been ignored on any other day, but in this darkness, they were alarm bells ringing with a warning of danger.

For some reason, her head ached terribly.

Her senses sharpened, but she could still see nothing.

A primal instinct screamed to flee, to fight, but her body refused to obey.

She tried to move, to stand, to flail out, but her limbs were not under her own control.

Panic rose as Rachel realized that unseen restraints were holding her in place.

She was too weak to struggle against the rope that give her no leeway to move.

Moving her head to one side and then another, she realized that something was wrapped across her eyes, a curtain drawn against whatever might be anywhere around her.

And her mouth was covered by something thick and intrusive—a gag that muffled her voice, leaving only the taste of panic on her tongue.

She could only breathe through her nose, which was free of whatever was blocking her mouth.

This was no dreaming nightmare. The binds that held her still and helpless were strong, with textures and odors and painful resistance when she struggled against them. Her blindness, her inability to move or call out, had been imposed on her by some cruel adversary.

Why? What was going to happen to her? The fear that gripped Rachel was like a living thing, coiling around her chest and threatening to crush her resolve. She fought for control over her racing thoughts.

Fragments of memory began to surface like flotsam after a shipwreck. They bobbed on the waves of her consciousness, elusive and fragmented. Each fleeting recollection was a piece to an unsolved puzzle, yet they slipped through her mental grasp when she tried to fit them together.

But beneath Rachel’s dread, there stirred a spark of defiance—a stubborn refusal to surrender to the terror of her predicament.

She forced herself to breathe slowly, drawing air through the narrow passage left by the gag.

Each inhale was a battle, each exhale a minor victory against the paralyzing fear.

She vaguely remembered being at a beachfront house, a scene that might have come straight from a glossy magazine.

She had been doing her job, inspecting every corner of the luxurious house, ensuring that the views were unobstructed, that the wrap-around deck was clean, and the interior of the rental unit immaculate.

But Rachel couldn’t remember exactly what had happened there. It was like a pleasant movie had been interrupted and replaced by a horror story of some kind.

Then she wondered how much time had passed since then. Had anyone missed her yet? Would Grace, her boss, her friend, have noticed her absence by now?

In her mind’s eye, she saw Grace’s concerned face, the lines of worry that would crease her boss’s forehead when she failed to appear at their scheduled meeting.

Would Grace suspect something amiss? Would she send someone to look for Rachel, or would she assume some mundane delay had kept her from her obligations?

The thought of being forgotten, of languishing in this dark purgatory, spurred Rachel’s resolve.

Someone had to be searching for her. Someone had to find her before it was too late.

The quiet around her was shattered by the sound of footsteps, each step amplifying her dread. Then she was aware of a presence halted beside her, someone looming over her. As she drew in a shaky breath, a cloth was slapped across her nose and a sickly-sweet odor wiped away her awareness completely.

When Rachel next clawed her way back to awareness, it felt like emerging from a deep, disorienting sleep. Her senses were dulled, but the reality of her situation cut through the haze with alarming clarity. Bound, gagged, and blindfolded, she was a prisoner to her unseen captor.

Her mind, though foggy, struggled again to think what could have happened to her. Vague memories slipped in and out of focus—whispers of fabric, the steady whirring of a sewing machine somewhere in the background. Was it a clue, or just an illusion?

Rachel told herself she needed to stay alert, to gather every shred of information she could. Someone might be coming for her. She had to be ready—or at least as ready as one could be, tied to a chair in the dark.

But then that sweet-smelling cloth covered her nose again.

The fumes seeped into her nostrils, the chemical sweetness heralding the return of darkness.

No struggle, no time to react—just the cruel snatching away of consciousness.

Her mind fought against the dark tide, but the effort was futile; the drug pulled her down into the depths, away from answers that had seemed so agonizingly close.

Time lost meaning in Rachel’s world, marked only by the periods of forced unconsciousness that came with the sweet odor of chloroform.

She sensed that hours were passing, but she had no idea how many.

She also realized that her assailant was repeatedly coming and going, leaving her.

Each return to consciousness was a small victory against the chemical-induced blackouts.

But with each victory came the awareness of her predicament, and then darkness descended again.

She had barely reached consciousness again when she became aware of something different happening. She tensed. What was going on now?

A touch, light and unexpected, grazed her hair—then the cold snip of scissors sounded close to her ear.

Her captor was cutting her hair.

Long strands fell away, brushing against her skin, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable. It was an intimate violation, one that brought a chill despite the warmth of the room. Rachel’s mind whirled with questions. What could be the purpose behind such a peculiar act?

As the scissors continued their grim work, she clung to the sound of each cut, trying to maintain a grip on reality.

Fear twisted in her gut, but it was the confusion that gnawed at her most persistently.

The methodical shearing felt like preparation, a step toward some unfathomable endgame.

And yet, there was no insight, no glimmer of understanding in the darkness that enveloped her.

The snipping came to an abrupt halt.

The silence that followed was heavy, expectant. Rachel braced for the cloth, the familiar precursor to oblivion. But this time, a voice pierced through the fog.

“Hush,” it cooed, the tone soft, almost soothing. The voice was chillingly familiar, stirring embers of recognition in Rachel’s memory, but she couldn’t place it within the haze clouding her thoughts.

The air shifted, a new weight pressing close. Rachel’s breath hitched in her throat as anticipation curled around her senses. The scissors had ceased their cold dance against her scalp, and now silence loomed. She tensed, every muscle coiled, waiting.

“Soon you’ll be ready,” whispered a voice, soft as silk yet laced with an icy undercurrent.

The words slithered into Rachel’s ears, a serpent’s hiss promising darkness.

As the chloroform-soaked rag descended once more over her face, the cloying sweetness invaded her nostrils, a noxious perfume that spelled the end of consciousness.

But in those final moments, before the black tide washed over her, a spark ignited within the fog of her drugged mind. Her captor—the orchestrator of her nightmare—was not a stranger.

That voice. It belonged to someone she knew, someone woven into the fabric of her everyday life. It was intimate, familiar, remaining in her memory from countless conversations and shared confidences.

Rachel’s heartbeat thundered in her ears as the name hovered at the edge of her awareness. But before she could grasp this revelation, darkness dragged her down once more into its silent depths.