Page 1 of Redemption (Favorite Malady Duet #2)

ABIGAIL

I wake up to a nightmare.

In the second between unconsciousness and waking, I believe that the awful scene with Dane was just that: a nightmare.

But then I realize that I can’t move my limbs, and something soft is wedged between my teeth. The makeshift gag presses deep into my mouth, and part of my brain registers that it’s one of Dane’s neckties.

More silken material binds my wrists and ankles. They’re drawn together at the small of my back, stretching my body in a hogtied position. I’m completely helpless to do anything but writhe on my side.

Fear crashes into me like the sharp slap of an icy ocean wave in January. Terror rips from my chest in a primal scream, but it’s muffled by the knotted gag.

Dane shushes me gently, and I shudder in horror at the shadow of comfort that tempts me.

The man I love is the masked man who attacked me.

He’s my online confidante, GentAnon.

He has scores of my paintings hanging in this house, the house across the street from my apartment building.

How long has he been watching me?

My mind races through all the times I felt shivery and trembled in his presence, even on our first dates. The images flicker in a nauseating film reel. Even then, my body recognized the predator. But I’m addicted to the fear, the threat.

He learned all of my darkest secrets, and he used them against me.

The mattress dips beside me, and my dark god appears in my line of vision, blocking out the view of my paintings.

We’re still in the bedroom of the powder blue house, in the horrific shrine to me.

I can’t have been out for very long. He caught me in a chokehold, but I don’t feel bruises around my neck.

Dane wouldn’t risk damaging his pet.

My stomach churns, and I taste acid on the back of my tongue.

Another scream tears from my soul—pure horror this time. Despair. Denial.

Dane’s familiar, elegant hand is achingly gentle as he strokes my hair back from my cheek. His eyes are deep green pools, and fine lines sharpen his heartbreaking features.

“Hush now, pet. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I shudder and cringe away, but I can’t move more than an inch in my bound state. He has no trouble keeping me within his tender reach, and he caresses my cheek as though to prove my powerlessness.

“I didn’t want it to be this way.” His cultured voice is deep with something like regret.

The slightly rough tone threads confusion through my panicked, racing thoughts.

I don’t know what’s real anymore. Is he my protective, fierce lover? Or is he a heartless, calculating monster?

The memory of the woolen skull mask in my fingers is all too sharp.

I definitely didn’t dream that.

“I can’t let you go to the police,” he reasons. He’s unnervingly calm, and I recognize his bedside manner voice.

My vision blurs as tears surge. I desperately blink them away so that I can keep the threat in sight.

His thumb traces the line of my cheekbone as he wipes away the wetness on my cheeks.

My entire body goes cold, and a violent shiver makes my bound limbs quake.

“Don’t be afraid,” he soothes over the sound of my muffled pleas.

Let me go, I try to beg. You don’t have to do this.

But the words are garbled behind the gag, and my assailant seems unfazed by my distress.

He’s still touching me as though he intends to comfort me, but he’s coolly composed.

I recognize the merciless, flat expression that sets his handsome face in stony planes.

It used to make me tremble with desire. Now, I shudder in pure terror.

“Try not to struggle,” he says, a gentle command. “You’ll only strain your muscles. I have to go to my place to get a few things, but you’ll be safe here.”

He gestures in the direction of the nightstand. My phone is propped up against a lamp, the camera directed at me.

“I’ll have you on video call the whole time.” He says it like a reassurance. “I wouldn’t leave you alone like this if I didn’t absolutely have to. I’ll watch over you, even when I’m not here.”

Ice encases my bones. How long has he been doing just that: watching over me?

He twirls my purple curl around his finger before withdrawing regretfully. “I’ll be back soon.”

He stands and starts walking away.

Please! I scream into the gag. Dane!

He seems to recognize his name, because he flinches like I flung a knife that hit its mark deep in his chest. Then he shrugs and strides out of the bedroom, disappearing into the living room. I hear the front door open, then close. The lock engages.

I scream for help, for mercy, for salvation.

But no one hears my smothered pleas.

No one comes to save me.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but my muscles ache and my throat is sore by the time Dane returns.

He’s holding a large, leather duffel bag in one hand. My passport is in the other.

My stomach drops, and I jerk against my restraints.

Why does he have my passport? How did he even get it?

I keep it in my nightstand drawer, and I locked my apartment door when…

My heart sinks as the awful reality of my situation weighs on my chest like a lead weight. Of course, Dane is able to easily access my apartment; he’s the masked man. He’s already been able to break in far too easily.

His sensual lips press together in a grim line as he sets the bag down and rummages in it for a few seconds.

My head starts swinging back and forth in horrified denial when I see the syringe he’s holding.

“I had to get this from work,” he explains, calm and cool. “It won’t hurt.”

He sits beside me and uncaps the needle. I writhe in a frenzy—prey caught in a trap.

One hand settles at my nape, pinning me with a firm but careful grip.

“Just a little pinch,” he says, voice soft in that bedside manner.

I barely feel the needle slide into my neck, which only makes the horror of the drugs oozing into my system that much more potent. I shriek and jerk in his hold, but he might as well have a collar around my throat.

My limbs grow heavy, and darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision.

That featherlight touch on my hair again, petting me in a soothing rhythm.

“There’s no point fighting it, Abigail,” he admonishes. “The journey home will be much easier this way.”

Easier for who? I want to rail, but my tongue is thick against the gag.

He’s taking me somewhere, and I suspect that he doesn’t mean my apartment when he says “home”.

He has my passport.

We’re going…

He’s taking me…

I’m scared…

Even my disjointed thoughts float away, and his green eyes are the last thing I see before the darkness closes in.