FIVE
Decima
The airaround me was clammy and chilly. Without opening my eyes, I reached for the covers at my side—covers that I must have kicked off while I slept.
As I moved my arm, a painful ache in my side worked its way into my consciousness. Then a jab of pain shot through my wrist. Why was I hurt?
A flash of Anna’s bloody, pain-marred face passed through my mind, and my eyes snapped open. They stung for a moment until I blinked the tinge of discomfort away and focused my vision on the ceiling.
The paneled ceiling. The ceiling above my head in the household had been smooth and white—not paneled.
The previous night floated up through my memory—the attack on the household, my hurried departure, that oh so wonderful drive through the rain… and the crash. The men who’d supposedly come to my aid.
And then I’d blacked out.
But where had I ended up after that? This wasn’t a hospital. No tang of antiseptic cleaner and sterilized surfaces hung in the air. It smelled of dust and stale coffee with a hint of masculinity.
I turned my head slowly, taking in the small, cement-floored room that contained nothing but a bed, a wooden chair, and a large rug. At least I could see properly now, the chemicals finally wiped from my eyes. Still, fear trickled through my chest. I squared my shoulders against it.
Fear was weakness. Fear would be the reason I got killed. There were plenty of other emotions—powerful emotions—to choose from, so I needed to pick wisely. Rage and vengeance were my top two options, but I chose the third, the one that had served me well many times in the past.
A cool, focused calm.
I pressed my left arm into the mattress and pushed myself upright, trying to avoid clenching the muscles that I knew would bring a deeper ache into my ribs. Even so, a groan slipped from my lips. I examined my right arm, which had been placed in a firm plastic brace as I slept.
Otherwise I was dressed exactly the same as when I’d left the household. I didn’t look or feel as if anyone had violated my body. A quiver ran down my spine at the thought, but I dismissed it. No point in worrying about what might happen, only what was actually happening right now.
I released a long breath, my bruised ribs throbbing with the deep exhale. My gaze lifted to the door. My instincts urged me to run for it, but the trained part of my mind knew I had to play this smarter. Whoever had brought me here would be waiting outside that door, and escaping that way might be impossible, especially with a sprained wrist and bruised ribs.
Instead, I allowed my eyes to flick toward the window. It was set high in the wall, which confirmed what I’d already suspected from the smell and the floor: I was in a basement. A stream of sunlight seeped through the glass, offering a thin yet cheery light, but my heart sank.
There was no way I was squeezing my shoulders or hips through that tiny rectangle. I’d had enough practice at wriggling through small openings to judge it at a glance.
Shit.
I needed another strategy, and I needed it quickly. Did I have anything like a weapon on me?
I patted my pockets, thinking of the dinner knife and the shard of glass. My stomach clenched for a different reason. My pockets were totally empty. Not just of weapons, but of the rolls of cash and the jewelry I’d grabbed to fund my self-assigned mission.
How the hell was I going to track down the murderers who’d killed Anna, Noelle, and the others if I didn’t have anything to pay my way?
I glanced around the room, but the tote bag I’d stuffed the rest of my belongings and more jewelry into was nowhere in sight. My pulse hiccupped.
No, no, no. I had no money, no weapons, and injuries that’d slow me down in a fight. I had no one to turn to for help. I had nothing. Nobody.
Gritting my teeth, I took a deep breath to steel myself. I was Decima, protector of the household, and I’d get through this. I’d see my mission through.
But the first step in doing that was figuring out where I was and who’d brought me here. I wasn’t tracking down any murderers while I was stuck in this room anyway.
Whoever had taken me, they’d stolen the loot I’d rightfully stolen. And it hadn’t even really been stealing when I’d done it, since I was the sole remaining survivor of the household—everything left in the house might as well have been mine. Of course, what did I expect from the kind of person who’d haul an unconscious woman into a strange room somewhere?
I considered the window again, scooting to the edge of the bed. I should be able to reach it if I pulled the chair over—my ribs were going to just love that move. But even if I couldn’t escape through that opening, I might be able to catch the attention of some passerby…
A click caught my attention. My head jerked toward the door. The previously locked door, judging by the rasp of a deadbolt shifting with the turn of a key. All my senses went on even higher alert. I tensed where I sat, preparing to fight for my life if I had to.
The door swung open to reveal a man.
A massive man. He stood several inches over six feet and ducked through the low doorway, a habit he’d likely developed after hitting his head a handful of times in the past. His dark brown hair, short and methodically cut, matched the scruff that covered his jaw and neck. Beneath the neckline of his tight-fit shirt, there were various places where tattoos peeked out from his brawny chest, though I couldn’t tell what they were.