Page 93 of He Knows When You're Awake

I think of Knox, already headed home, and Cole, stuck in his meeting across town. My mind races, trying to calculate options, escape routes, anything.

I see the movement too late. The Russians step forward in perfect synchronization, and before I can scream, one of them presses a cloth against my face. The world begins to blur at the edges.

The last thing I see is Voss carefully setting Havoc down, the puppy’s tail still wagging as my vision goes dark.

Chapter Thirty-SixSloane

The first thing I notice when I regain consciousness is that my captors have excellent taste in furniture. The chair I’m tied to is Danish modern, all sleek lines and butter-soft leather. The room itself could be featured inArchitectural Digest—if you ignored the whole “hostage situation” vibe.

My heart is trying to punch through my ribs, and there’s a scream building in my throat that I refuse to let out. Fear claws at my insides—raw, primal terror that threatens to shatter my carefully maintained composure. But I can’t fall apart. Not now. Not when my life depends on keeping my wits about me.

One of the Russians checks the restraints, his grip bruising as he yanks the silk rope tighter. My wrists burn from the friction, but I bite back a whimper. The other one—I’ve mentally named them Boris and Vladimir—sets up a sleek laptop on the desk, connecting it to some kind of strange device with a camera lens and what looks like a hand scanner.

A hysterical laugh bubbles up as I realize this is exactly like one of those mafia romances I pretend not to read. Except this isn’t fiction, and there’s no guarantee of a happy ending.

Deep breath. Channel your inner femme fatale, Sloane.

I’ve managed to kick off my heels, partly out of spite, partlybecause if I’m going to die, it’s not going to be in four-inch Louboutins. The rope around my wrists is silk. Because of course it is.

“The facial recognition system is ready,” one of the Russians says, his accent thick.

“Good.” Julian’s voice comes from the doorway. “That’s why we’re keeping her face pretty. For now.”

When Julian walks in, I raise an eyebrow. “Do all corporate megalomaniacs take interior design classes? This is very ‘serial killer chic’—very Martha-Stewart-meets-Hannibal-Lecter.”

His perfectly controlled expression twitches. Just slightly. Good.

“I see why he likes you,” Julian says, settling into an armchair across from me. “You share his... particular sense of humor.”

“If this is where you launch into your villain origin story, can we skip to the highlights? The chloroform gave me a headache.”

My pulse quickens at my own daring. Every word is a gamble—too submissive and he’ll know he has power over me, too defiant and he might decide I’m not worth keeping alive. I can feel the silk rope digging into my wrists, and the urge to struggle against it is almost overwhelming. But I force myself to stay still, to keep my breathing even. Show no weakness. Give him nothing.

He studies me for a long moment, and I see something flicker in his eyes—something that makes me think of a cobra sizing up its prey. “Did Cole ever tell you how we met?”

I keep my voice steady, neutral. “No. He hasn’t.”

“I found him,” Julian continues as if I hadn’t spoken, “fresh out of business school, brilliant but raw. Unpolished. I saw myself in him—that same hunger, that same drive.” His voice takes on an almost wistful quality. “He was like a son to me.”

“And Claire?” I ask, the name slipping out before I can stop myself. “Did you ‘find’ her too?” His face darkens instantly, and I know I’ve struck a nerve.

“IinventedClaire,” he seethes. “She was nothing before me.”

“Really? Because I was under the impression you were nothing withouther.”

Julian’s hand moves so fast I barely see it before his palm connects with my cheek. The sting brings tears to my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

“Don’t speak unless I ask you to,” he hisses. “Learn your place.”

Motherfucker, that hurt! But I refuse to show it. I refuse to give the man the power even though I’m damn near panicked right now.

“Why don’t we skip to the part where you explain why I’m here?” My voice is quieter than I intend, but steady. “Why you took me from my home on Christmas Eve.”

His smile is cold, precise. “Christmas Eve. I chose it carefully. Five years ago, it was Christmas Eve when Cole destroyed everything.” His voice drops lower, almost intimate. “I thought it fitting that he should lose something precious on the same night.” He stands abruptly, pacing the room.

I keep my expression neutral. I’m not going to give away anything more than I have to.

“Claire was mywife.” He spits the words like they taste bitter. “We could have made so much money if it wasn’t for Cole.” He practically sneers the word.