Hale’s jaw clenches, his eyes bouncing between mine. Then he curses and straightens, stepping back from the bed. “Fucking hell. All right, we’re done here.”
My heart doesn’t even jump with hope. Whatever Hale might think, I’m not stupid. I know “we’re done here” doesn’t mean they’re going to let me go. It doesn’t even mean they’re done interrogating me for answers. It means I get a momentary reprieve, nothing more.
“Zaid.” He jerks his chin toward his two friends. “Rope.”
The man with copper-blond hair nods, then crosses over to one corner of the room and unzips a large black duffel bag. When he strides back toward us with several lengths of rope dangling from his grip, my body jerks. I scoot backward on the mattress, but Lucas stops me before I can slide off.
Zaid tosses the ropes to Hale, who catches them without turning around. Then Hale kneels on the bed on one knee and grabs my ankle, pulling me toward him. He grips my wrist and pins it above me, pressing it to the cool metal above my head.
His hands make quick work with the ropes and the headboard, his body leaning over mine as he binds one of my wrists. His clean, masculine scent trickles into my nostrils, and my eyes flare wide.
“What the hell are you doing?” I rasp.
“Tying you up to the bed.” He yanks the knot tighter. “So you don’t escape.”
My heart races. “I’m not gonna try to escape.”
“You’re such a fucking liar.”
Crossing over my body, he grabs the other wrist, tying it just as tight as the first. I ignore the weight of him pressing into me, the closeness of his chest to my face, as I yank against the bonds that hold me. But they’re unforgiving and unbreakable. I’m not going to move unless someone lets me out.
My breath quickens. I don’t like being out of control.
“I can’t move anyway,” I say desperately, and edge of panic bleeding into my voice. “I’m in too much fucking pain. I’m too weak.”
His cobalt eyes flicker as he glances down at me, his gaze skating over my side where the bullet wound is. I’m no longer wearing my wedding dress. I’m in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and I refuse to even let myself think about who changed my clothes.
“Yeah, well.” Hale meets my gaze again. “Ciro’s a good medic. You’ll heal up quick. And besides, I know you, Grace. You’re a fucking fighter. Too weak isn’t in your vocabulary.”
It’s not a compliment. Or at least, I don’t take it as one. How can I, when his words feel like the final nail in my coffin?
For some reason, I find myself looking to Ciro for help. He knows exactly what condition my body is in—he’s the one who stitched me up. I’m not going to be able to escape, even without being tied up, and he should know that.
Never mind that Hale is right. Even if I had to crawl on my knees through broken glass, I’d try anyway.
Maybe Ciro knows it too. Because he doesn’t speak up or lift a finger to stop his friend as Hale gives the knots on my wrists one final tug.
“Zaid, you’re on watch.”
That’s the last thing Hale says before they all leave the room.
5
Grace
Part of me expects to pass out again as soon as they leave the room. My head is still fuzzy, my body aching—although I’m pretty sure Ciro must’ve given me some painkillers, because my gunshot wound doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it should.
But once I’m alone, sleep refuses to come. Blissful unconsciousness hovers just out of reach.
So I stare at the ceiling instead, my gaze tracing the shapes in the spackling. I’ve been through a roller coaster of emotions already—denial, panic, fear, anger. Now I’m somewhere between calm and I-should-actually-be-freaking-out.
I’m numb.
I tried my luck with the ropes, but Hale wasn’t fucking around when he tied them—they’re not coming undone unless he decides to release me. I don’t know how much time has passed since they left me alone in this room. There’s only one window in the room, and it’s dark outside, so I assume it’s night. But without a clock, time doesn’t seem to exist in here.
How many hours ago was I about to walk down the aisle? About to say my vows and start a new chapter of my life?
Has it even been twenty-four?