When I felt hands on me again, I tried to kick against my restraints even as panic spiked in my blood and adrenaline surged through me. But the more I kicked and panicked, the more depleted I became. And as I struggled, I couldn't scream from behind the tape on my mouth. All I could do was moan and mumble and arch my back. But that didn't seem to faze whoever had me.
Fuck.
This had to be Middleton. I’d fucked up. I should have just listened to Bridge and gotten the hell out of London when I could. What the hell was wrong with me?
But it wasn't just Middleton. He had help. There was another set of hands trying to hold me still. They weren’t hurting me. In fact, the hands were gentle. But I knew to keep fighting, and I planned to fight until I had no breath. I arched and flailed, shoving my head backward, turning it side to side, and trying to make some painful, impactful contact. I wasn't going to do much damage, but at least I was going to go out fighting.
Are you sure about that?
When exhaustion started to hit, I paused for breath, and I realized that I was being carried. Brisk, chilly wind hit the exposed skin at my throat and belly. I shuddered as I tried to listen. I could hear lapping water. We were near a river?
Why are you even bothering? It's not as if anyone is ever going to find you. You should have listened to Bridge.
Even as I admonished myself, the gruff voices, both British, spoke in low, hushed tones, one telling the other to hurry up and load me. Load me where? God, another vehicle? Were they covering their tracks? Were they worried cameras had caught them in the other van? Car? SUV? I didn't know.
How the hell would Bridge ever find me?
For a moment, I felt like I was weightless. And there were a few seconds of quiet before the terror rushed back.
Something was shoved over my ears. What the hell? The silence was back, but it felt hollow in a way. I cried out behind the tape on my mouth, knowing it would do no good. But I couldn't help myself. Even as darkness threatened to take me over, I continued to fight.
Fighting was all I knew.
Oh yeah, that's our Emma. Fighting where she has no chance.
We were on a chopper. A helicopter. Which likely meant we were staying in the country. Unless they were taking me to France or somewhere else close enough for a helicopter.
Jesus. I did not want to die. Not today. Okay, fair enough, not ever. I had not penciled death on my to-do list.
Why did you ever leave Bridge's side? Why didn't you just listen?
I could ask myself all the questions, admonish myself all I wanted, but at the end of the day, my problem was how to get away right now. I could figure out all the rest of it when I was free. If I got free.
When we started to descend a short twenty minutes later, something told me we were still in the UK. Okay, so where? Could I lift a phone off one of my attackers? Maybe if I flailed enough and forced them to put me down, I could reach my hands around and find something, a weapon maybe.
No. My hands were behind my back. I had to get them in front of me first, which required some flexibility, and I didn't have the room for that.
But maybe when we stopped. They would have to leave me alone and stationary at some point. And then I was going to get the hell out of these restraints and figure my way out. Because right now, no one had any idea where I was, and no one was coming for me.
Especially not Bridge.
When the chopper was on the ground, two sets of hands started to collect me and lift me up. I moaned and whimpered, trying to wiggle as carefully as possible before falling over. But then someone else picked me up, tossing me easily over their shoulder. It was definitely a man. He was strong. Built. And he smelled vaguely familiar. Why was that? Was he wearing a commercial cologne? His scent was a little bit spicy and not completely unappealing.
Oh no, it’s too soon for Stockholm Syndrome. Get your shit together.
I tried to count the number of steps to try and reverse engineer my way out when I got free. God, I was so fucked. And all I wanted was Bridge. His arms around me, holding me, taking care of me, and making me feel safe for the first time in my life. Goddamn it, I should have just listened. When he said he wanted to put me on a plane, I should have just listened to him. But I hadn't. And now it was too late. There was no safety net now. There was no reprieve. I was going to die, and he had no idea where I was.
Five minutes later, I was being tossed on a bed. I expected some kind of hard pallet, but this was a bed. A full bed, not just a mattress on the floor. I sensed softness and the smell of roses and vanilla.
Fuck. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
Why was I on an actual bed?
Take one guess.
Someone grabbed my feet, and I tried to kick. Bringing my knees back, I caught someone in the chest, but then they had me around the ankles again, held in their big strong arms, and I thrashed as much as I could. My shoulders were burning, and then I heard it… The flick of a blade, and suddenly, my legs were free.
I used that opportunity to flail and kick. I tried to jump up and wiggle to my feet. But then there was a body pressed on top of me, and I screamed. It came out in a muffled squeal, but I was screaming and kicking my legs and bucking my hips. But no one hurt me. No one started to pull down my leggings. No one sliced anything along my face. No. I was just rolled onto my stomach, and the tears spilled down my cheeks as I sobbed.
How is this happening?
But instead of the worst thing I could think of, something was slicing through my zip ties, and my hands were free. Immediately, I pulled my hand back and hit in the general vicinity of where I thought his face would be, and then all I heard was a low curse. Quickly, I dragged the hood off my face, pulling at the tape on my mouth at the same time. "Fuck you—"
I blinked rapidly, letting the light in. What I saw in front of me was completely unexpected.
Instead of Francis Middleton, instead of a nameless, faceless henchman, instead of a greasy serial killer resembling Jeffrey Dahmer, I saw my husband.
Three
Bridge
Emma was a fighter.
Always was, always had been, but I hadn't expected her feet kicking me in the chest. And the ache I felt in my center was more than just catching the hit from her heels.
Anger burned in my heart but with love intertwined. It was painful. The burn wasn’t one that would dissipate quickly. I knew that it would never go away. Because now I had to reconcile what I had to do with what I wanted to do. I wanted Emma out of my face, far away from me, where I would never have to look at her ever again. I should have put her on a plane to the Winston Isles. They would have kept her safe. And then I wouldn't have had to deal with the emotional hit. But I couldn't.
Not now. Not knowing that she’d aligned herself with my father.
The other issue was Middleton. Because she’d refused to leave, we had no idea what he knew at that point. And obviously, knowing that she couldn't be trusted, I couldn't very well send her to the Winston Isles alone, knowing she would only double back.
Because she’d done it once before.
So this was the only other solution. To say she’d find it distasteful was an understatement.
"Stop kicking. You'll only hurt yourself."
Emma stood frozen, staring at me. "Stop kicking? Are you fucking insane? You kidnapped me.”
She wasn’t wrong. “How about you look at this as protective custody? One where you do as you’re told.”