Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Jino stands on the porch, grinning, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking relaxed, and happy, and completely unaware that the world just collapsed.
"What's with the lights? You will not believe who I just talked to on the way home," he starts, still smiling. "Cassie from the strip club, weren't we just talking about her a couple weeks ago? Total submissive energy, and I'm thinkin' maybe I should—"
He stops mid-sentence.
The smile dies.
"What happened?"
I try to answer. My mouth opens. Words should come out. They don't.
I try again.
"Someone—she's—Emmaleen—"
The stuttering fragments sound pathetic even to my own ears, syllables jamming together like a car crash in slow motion. I tell myself to get it together. To speak like a functioning adult instead of a panicked child.
I can't.
Jino drops the duffel bag and grabs my shoulder. "G. Look at me. Breathe. What happened?"
"Emmaleen's gone." The words finally break free, sharp and jagged. "Someone broke in. Professional. Hacker, probably. Shut down the entire grid. Power, cameras, alarms, everything offline. Four minutes. In and out."
Jino's expression shifts from concern to tactical assessment in half a second. "How do you know?"
I speed walk back into the control room, Jino at my heels. Then rewind the footage. We watch until the man puts Emmaleen in the trunk.
"LaRiccia," Rico says flatly, not a question.
I nod, turning back to the footage. Then I reach down and press the space bar, halting the footage mid capture.
I just… stare at it as my whole world stutters.
Because it's… it can't be.
What the fuck is he doing here?
Jino presses a contact. Brings the phone to his ear. "Yeah, it's Moretti. We've got an emergency. I need—"
I cross the space between us and take the phone from his hand. Jino stares at me, confusion flickering across his face. The voice on the other end says, "Moretti? You still there?"
I keep my eyes locked on Jino's as I answer back. "Forget you got this call." Then I end it.
Jino's shakes his head. "What the fuck are you doing?"
I don't answer. I turn and walk back to the laptop, Jino following. I point to the footage frozen on the frame.
Jino leans in. "What? What am I looking at?"
I point at the screen again. At the frozen image of the man shoving Emmaleen into the trunk. The angle catches his left arm as he lifts it, pushing her down. The ski mask hides his face. The black clothes hide his identity.
But he's shirtless. I think Emmaleen is wearing his shirt.
And right there, in plain sight, are tattoos. Very identifiable tattoos.
Celtic tattoos.
Black ink. Intricate knotwork. Distinctive enough that there's no mistaking them.
Jino goes very still beside me.
"Holy shit," he breathes.
I don't say the name.
I don't have to.
We both know exactly who has Celtic tattoos like that. Who moves like a ghost through security systems. Who has the skills, the access, and the history with me to pull off a breach this clean.
Jino's hand is already moving, grabbing his phone from me, fingers flying across the screen. "We line up backup anyway. Track the car. Find the location. Go in quiet, extract her, no casualties—"
I take the phone again.
Jino rounds on me, anger flashing hot in his eyes. "Giovanni, what the fuck—"
"We cannot retaliate," I stress, each word deliberate and final.
"He took her," Jino snaps. "He broke into your house, shut down your security, and kidnapped your—" He stops himself, searching for the right word. "—your slave. And you don't want to fucking massacre this guy? G! Come on!"
I turn back to the screen.
To the footage of Lorcan Ó Fearghail pushing Emmaleen Rourke into the trunk of a stolen Buick.
"No," I say quietly. "I can't."
There is only one man who could do this to me and get away with it.
One man on this whole planet who I have a blood oath with.
Lorcan has taken Emmaleen.
Why? I have no fucking clue.
But there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
4
I'm kneeling on a stranger's floor somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, and the weirdest part isn't that I was just kidnapped.
It's that I'm calm.
Not shock-calm. Not dissociation-calm. Not even that floaty post-orgasmic calm Jino engineers by edging me into oblivion.
This is different.
This is the kind of calm that settles over you when your nervous system recognizes a pattern and decides, without consulting your conscious mind, that everything's fine. You're safe. No need to panic.
Way to go, Emmaleen! Your Pavlovian conditioning is so thorough that kidnapping now registers as a minor scheduling inconvenience rather than a life-threatening crisis! Side effects may include Stockholm syndrome, complete loss of survival instinct, and an inexplicable fondness for men who put their hands on your throat!
I should be screaming. Planning escape routes. Cataloguing exits, and weapons, and whether I can get to that fireplace poker before he stops me.
Instead, I'm sitting here in Position One—knees together, hands on thighs, spine straight, chin slightly lifted—like I'm waiting for my Master to tell me what comes next.