STELLA
A prickleof sensation dragged me from the dark, murky wells of unconsciousness.
It started as a tingle in my fingers and toes. Then it was the hard press of wood beneath my thighs. Finally, it was the rough abrasion of ropes around my wrists and a pounding pain behind my eyes.
The only times I’d been tied up were with Christian, but that’d been consensual. This…I didn’t know what this was.
All I knew was, it hurt, and my throat was dry, and my head throbbed like someone had shoved a jackhammer or ten in there.
Concrete anchors dragged down my lids. The darkness wasn’t soft and gentle like the gradual drift to sleep. It was endless and menacing, like the weight of the earth after being buried alive.
I forced my lungs to expand past my rising panic.
Breathe. Think. What happened?
I struggled to sort through the day’s events.
I remembered meeting my family at the cafe. Brock running to the restroom. Nausea, dizziness, stumbling out for air…and the cold press of a gun against my ribcage. A voice, then blackness.
Oh God.
I’d been kidnapped.
The realization sank in with cold, sharp claws.
The desire to sink into panic consumed me, but I gritted my teeth and forced myself to stay in the present.
I was not dying like this. I wasn’t dying at all. Not for a very, very long time.
I pried my eyes open through sheer force of will. Dizziness warped my vision before my surroundings took shape.
I was in some sort of ramshackle cabin made of corrugated metal and wood. A thick film of grime coated the windows and muted the sunlight scattered on the floor. There was no furniture other than the chair I was bound to and a lopsided table that held a length of rope and, almost laughably, a takeout container of food.
Bile coated my throat.
Where was I? Judging by the light, it hadn’t been long since I was knocked out, which meant we couldn’t have gone too far.
“You’re awake.”
My head whipped toward the familiar voice, and a second bout of dizziness washed over me.
When it cleared, the bile thickened.
I knew why the voice was so familiar.
“No.” The croak sounded pathetically weak.
Julian smiled. “Surprised?”
D.C.’s most celebrated lifestyle journalist looked different outside the glossy confines of his Washington Weekly headshot and the one time we’d met in person.
It’d been for my profile photoshoot, and he’d been nice. Unassuming.
He’d been even nicer during the dozen or so times we spoke on the phone.
But now that I looked closer, I spotted the mad glint in his eyes and the unnaturalness of his smile.
It was the smile of a psychopath.
My pulse jackknifed.
“I thought you might be.” Julian smoothed a hand over the front of his shirt. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“You’re a writer for Washington Weekly.” My tongue felt thick in my mouth.
He must’ve slipped something in my drink at the cafe. Whatever it was, its effects lingered and clouded the edges of my consciousness.
“Obviously.” I could’ve sworn he rolled his eyes. “Before that, Stella. We had a class together at Thayer. Communications Theory with Professor Pittman. You sat two seats in front of me and to my right.” A smile of reminiscence appeared. “I liked that class. It was where I first saw you.”
Thayer. Communications Theory.
Quick flashes of a quiet blond boy sitting in the back of the class filtered through my mind’s eye, but I’d taken that class years ago. I barely remembered what the professor looked like, much less my classmates.
“I didn’t tell you during our many lovely chats. I wanted to see if you remembered.” His smile collapsed into a frown. “You didn’t, but that’s okay. I was a different person back then. Less successful, less worthy of you. I told you how I felt with my letters, but I had to make something of myself before I knew you’d accept me. It’s why I didn’t contact you earlier. But now…” He spread his arms. “We can finally be together.”
“Be together? You kidnapped me!”