Page 68 of Beautiful Savage
My pulse kicks up, the dancer's instinct for when a thing is off balance, faster than thought. Through the open doorway, Papa sleeps in the spare bedroom downstairs, his broken arm propped on a pillow, breathing slow and even. The cottage holds its Monday quiet. Lemon polish on the counters, the faint trace of morning coffee, old Mr.Patterson's mower humming down the street.
I should stay inside. Lock the door. Call someone.
But the second security man should be doing his perimeter check along the side of the house, and I can't see him from here. Maybe the driver just dozed off. Maybe I'm being paranoid, seeing danger where there's only exhaustion. These men have been protecting us for days because Gunner insisted, even after I told him to stay away. The least I can do is check if one needs help.
I tuck the grocery list into my wallet with hands that want to shake. Pick up Papa's truck keys from the bowl by the door. Myown car sits abandoned at the dance studio, another casualty of this week that's aged us both.
The front door opens on silent hinges. I don't lock it behind me. Haven't been locking it for days now, as if leaving it open might undo the fear that brought us here.
The morning warmth hits my skin, thick with the scent of heritage roses from the arbor. Everything looks exactly as it should. The small life I've chosen continuing its small rhythms. The life where I'll marry Jarrod when he asks again, teach eight-year-olds their pliés forever, be the woman Pristine needs.
Three steps down the front path, and my body knows I've made a mistake.
The security car driver isn't sleeping. The angle of his neck, the way his weight lists against the door. He's unconscious or worse. The car is still running, but the man inside might never move again. The second guard is nowhere to be seen, and that absence screams louder than any alarm.
I turn to run back to the house, but a man is already coming around the side of the cottage at a full sprint. Dark tactical gear, face uncovered because he doesn't care if I see him. He's closing the distance fast.
I manage two steps toward the door. Maybe three.
Another man materializes at the truck, cutting off my escape route. He must have come from the black SUV that's suddenly at the curb. A vehicle that wasn't there twenty seconds ago when I stepped outside.
The first man reaches me from behind. His strike is precise. The heel of his hand connecting with my jaw in a calculated blow that makes my vision swim and my knees buckle. Not a knockout punch, but something designed to disorient without damaging the merchandise. My body becomes something I can't quite control, muscles refusing to obey like when I've pushed too hard in practice.
A hood drops over my head. Heavy black canvas that reeks of motor oil and old sweat. The world goes dark.
Hands yank my wrists behind me. The sharp bite of plastic as a zip tie cuts into my skin. Then I'm being lifted. One man at each arm. Carried. Eight steps, nine, ten. My feet drag uselessly.
A car door opens. They shove me into the back seat of the SUV. Bodies slide in on either side, boxing me in completely.
The SUV pulls away from the curb, and everything I know becomes past tense. Mr.Patterson's mower fading behind us. My cottage, my father, my small safe life, all of it falling away.
The recognition hits through the pain in my jaw: something terrible has happened to the security men because of me. That wedding ring catching sunlight. Will it ever slide into his wife's fingers again?
I don't scream. Screaming changes nothing. Won't wake Papa from his nap. Won't undo what's happened to those men. Won't undo the choices that put me between two soldiers in a black SUV heading somewhere I don't want to imagine.
The vehicle moves through Pristine's familiar streets. I feel each turn in my bones, the dancer's muscle memory trying to map our route. Left from the driveway. Right at the bottom of the street. Left onto the main road. Three turns logged before the road straightens into highway speed.
The men barely speak. Once, the driver mentions a route number I only partially catch. The passenger grunts acknowledgment.
I test the zip ties. They don't budge. My hands are already tingling from the angle and tightness. Through the hood, I catch fragments. A distant freight train horn, the road surface changing from smooth asphalt to rougher chip seal. We've left the state highway for back roads. Away from witnesses. Away from help.
Fifteen minutes in, maybe more, my body's attempt to track our route gets interrupted by memory.
Your desires destroy what you love.
My mother's voice in my head, the compass that's guided me since I was seven. The verdict that sent me away from Miami. The truth that made me tell Gunner to stay away while Papa bled on our living room floor.
But something cracks in the logic this time. A hairline fracture that makes my chest tighten. I'm hooded and bound in this SUV because I left Miami. Because I came back to Pristine. Because I made myself accessible by returning to the small life. My desires didn't put me here. Leaving did.
No.That can't be right. I'm here because I wanted too much, because I let Gunner in, because—
"Time," the soldier in front says.
The one beside me opens something. That distinctive click of a medical kit. I know what's coming before hands hold my shoulder against the seat. Someone rolls up my sleeve. The cold shock of alcohol swab on my upper arm. The same arm where Gunner gripped while he fucked me against the window, claiming me for anyone to see. Then the sharp prick of a needle.
The plunger depresses slowly. I don't fight.
The sedative spreads through me, slow and heavy. The world softens at the edges like after dancing too long without water. The hood gets heavier. Time slips.
