6. Alexis

6

Ido my best to prevent this woman—Nat, I think—from dragging me to another room, but she's much stronger than me and basically carries me to my new prison like I'm a sack of flour.

She dumps me unceremoniously on the carpet and stalks toward the door.

"Please don't lock me in here," I beg. "Please let me go. I won't tell anyone. I swear."

Nat pauses at the doorway and turns her head slightly. "You don't get to leave until the Don says you can. I'll be back later with some food."

With that, she shuts the door. I can hear a click as the lock turns into place, and then Nat's footsteps fade away.

Rushing to the door, I pound on it, my knuckles becoming raw and red. "Somebody help me!" I scream. "Please! Let me out!"

Only silence answers my pleas.

I curl up into a little ball, fighting back the terror that's threatening to claw its way out of me. I had managed to escape one captor, only to fall into the arms of another.

But I had gotten out of the Carter home. Which means I can get out of here, too.

Giving up on the door, I spin around and survey the room. It's an exact replica of the previous room I was in, just flip-flopped. Plush sheets adorn the four-poster bed, and to the left of the bedroom is a door that leads to a bathroom.

Squaring my shoulders, I rush to the picture window overlooking the bed. Relief pours through me as I'm able to open it, cold air slapping me in the face.

I look down to see that I'm at least on the second floor. Escaping from here wouldn't be as easy as it was at the Carter house. I can't jump without seriously hurting myself.

What to do?

My eyes land on the blankets on the bed, and an idea comes to me. If I knot enough sheets, towels, and blankets together, I should be able to make a makeshift rope long enough to climb down.

I dart around the bedroom, gathering up any cloth I can find—the sheets off the bed, fluffy towels from the bathroom, and an extra blanket located in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

My heart pounds in my ears as I weave the materials into a makeshift rope, glancing over my shoulder at the locked door. Nat had said she would be back with food, but she didn't say when.

I'm going to have to work quickly.

I lay two sheets down—marveling at how soft they are—and tie the corners together in a tight knot. I repeat this process with each set of corners, my makeshift rope growing longer and longer.

As I work, my mind can't help but stray to Damian.

He frightens me, but I'm also strangely attracted to him. I don't understand how I can be, considering he just took me captive.

But he did save me from the person with a gun. He could have just left me in the streets for Mark or the Carters to find. But he didn't. Even if his intentions weren't great, he still brought me to safety.

At least here, I don't have to worry about being sold like cattle. At least I don't think I have to.

I pause my weaving, shivering, although I'm not sure if it's from the cold air coming through the open window.

I can't believe I'm actually considering this place—Damian's home—to be safe. For all I know, he could have some dungeon that he plans to lock me into. Or he could have me killed.

But anything would be better than staying with the Carters and being sold to The Brotherhood. I shiver again, feeling nausea rise up in me. It's always been evident that the Carters never truly liked me and they always treated me like a second-class citizen. I was the outsider looking in. My clothes were hand-me-downs from Emma, and Emma always got the bigger portions of food, the better toys. Emma received the fancy vacations while I stayed home. The only time the Carters ever treated me well was when they knew my social worker would be coming for her quarterly visit.

Suzanne always made it crystal clear through her cold indifference and neglectful behavior that I was a burden she resented, and Dennis was too cowed and apathetic to intervene or even show me an ounce of warmth or kindness. So, why do they hate me so much? If they never wanted a second child, why did they rescue me from my would-be kidnappers? And what have I ever done to Emma? Is it because she viewed me as an intruder, a threat to her parents' love and attention?

And through it all, I have done nothing wrong to provoke their dislike that I can comprehend. I busted my ass with chores, got good grades in school, and stayed out of trouble. I was always polite and helpful, hoping against hope that if I just tried hard enough, worked hard enough, proved my worth—maybe then, the Carters would finally accept me. Maybe then, I could have the family I so desperately craved.

Tears burn my eyes. What is so fundamentally wrong or unlovable about me? Why did the Carters hate me so viscerally when I had done everything to be the perfect, grateful foster daughter? Why would they betray me in the worst way possible by trying to sell me to the highest bidder?

I don't understand. Maybe I never will.

It's times like these when I miss my mom so much it feels like a physical ache in my chest. Although I can barely remember what she looked like, I can still remember the way her hands felt as she stroked my hair, the smell of her perfume as I snuggled into her neck, and the warmth of her body as she hugged me.

She loved me unconditionally, and I never felt like a burden or felt alone when with her. When things used to be really bad, I would dream that my mother would knock on the door, ready to take me home to a place where I was safe and wanted.

Sniffling, I stand up, holding my knotted rope in my hands. I can't focus on the past. Right now, my only hope is that this rope is long enough.

Throwing the rope out the window, I watch as it unfurls into the darkness. To my dismay, the rope dangles about ten feet off the ground. I curse under my breath and rush to the dresser. Rifling through each drawer, I triumphantly pull out another top sheet. I rapidly incorporate the sheet into my improvised rope, weaving the ends through the gaps in the sheet knot.

I stretch the rope taut. It looks precarious, like one good stiff wind will untie the knots, but it'll have to do. I have to trust that my knots are tight enough.

Footsteps echo down the hall, and I freeze, my heart thundering in my chest. Even if I could hide the rope, the stripped bed, empty bathroom, and open dresser drawers speak to my deceit. I can barely breathe as I hear the footsteps get louder before growing fainter as the person in the hall walks away.

I release my breath, knees trembling as I lean against the mattress. That was too close. I need to get out of here now.

I quickly tie one end of the rope to the solid wooden column closest to the window, securing it as tightly as I can. Giving it a firm tug to test its strength, I move to the window and look down.

Although I've never had a fear of heights, the realization of what I'm about to do hits me like a ton of bricks and my vision suddenly gets woozy. With a deep, shuddering breath, I throw the rope out the window and swing a leg over the windowsill.

The door suddenly opens, and Damian walks into the room.

I freeze, my heart pounding in my ears.

Too late. I'd taken too long.

Damian blinks at me, as if not believing what he's seeing. His eyes scan the bedroom, taking in the stripped bed and me perched on the window sill. His face screws up with rage.

"Going somewhere?" Damian asks, taking a menacing step into the room.

I open my mouth, but no words come out. I can only cling to the window frame, trembling, as he advances.

In a blind panic, I fling my other leg over the ledge, desperately scrambling for purchase on the makeshift rope. But Damian moves with startling speed, closing the distance in four strides. He closes his hands on my wrists, forcefully wrenching me back into the bedroom.

I fall onto the mattress, gasping as the air leaves my body. Before I can take another breath, I'm pinned against the wall, Damian's body pressed against mine to ensure I can't escape, my arms up by my head, his hands wrapped around my wrists.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Damian roars, his face mere inches from mine. "Did you really think you could escape me?"

I should be terrified by his proximity and anger, but I find myself overwhelmed by my attraction to him. It doesn't help that he looks unbelievably handsome right now. The suit he's wearing is undeniably expensive and fits him like a glove, hugging his broad shoulders and tapering down to accent his narrow hips and waist.

"Answer my fucking question, Alexis," he hisses into my ear, causing me to shiver. Goosebumps erupt onto my flesh.

"Yes, I thought I could escape," I whisper, my head tilted back to expose my throat.

Damian growls, and goddamn, the sound is so unbelievably sexy. "I should tie you up to the bed using that fucking rope ladder of yours."

Why does that thrill me so much? My cheeks grow hot as unrequested thoughts of what Damian could do to me while I am tied up flicker through my mind.

Even in Damian's rage and anger, I notice he's careful not to aggravate any of the injuries Mark left. Although I'm pressed against the wall, my back doesn't hurt and he's taking care to not touch my bruised cheek.

He pulls back slightly, his smoldering gaze locking onto mine, and all coherent thoughts sputter to a halt.

"Are you going to run again?" he asks, his voice a whispered caress.

I shake my head. "N–No."

What if I did run? Would he catch me? What would he do to me? My pulse quickens at the thought as the damp heat pooling between my thighs becomes a visceral, instant ache. I want to cross my legs and squirm, but I don't want to draw attention to my arousal.

Damian steps back just slightly and lets go of my wrists, watching as they fall limply to my sides. His eyes never leave mine as he shrugs off his suit jacket and tosses it onto the bed. My jaw nearly drops as I watch his hands work at his collar, stripping off his silk tie with one easy pull before undoing the top button of his crisp white shirt.

That tantalizing glimpse of tanned, taut skin and the promise of lean muscle beneath sends an electric jolt of pure yearning zinging through my veins.

This is worse than torture. My body is hyper-aware of his presence. Who cares if he's a member of the Mafia? Who cares that he's probably murdered and destroyed countless lives? All rational thought has left me, leaving me with an overwhelming need for him.

Damian's gaze slowly rakes over me, leaving a scorching trail in its wake, and I can't deny the dizzying effect of being pinned under that intense stare. Those intense eyes miss nothing, taking in every curve, every breath, and every emotion probably playing across my face.

He leans in. "Where did you learn to tie a rope like that?" he growls against the hammering pulse of my throat, his stubble deliciously rough against my oversensitive skin.

I swallow, my core clenching again with wanting. "I–I was taught a long time ago," I whisper.

"By whom?"

I'm surprised I even remember my name at this point. "Some man I worked with. He was an old Navy guy."

Damian moves in closer again, and his body is mere inches from mine. I fight the moan trying to work its way out of my body, resisting the urge to close my eyes and tip my head back. I can feel his warm breath on my face and the smell of his cologne as he leans in. His lips are so tantalizingly close, I think he's about to kiss me.

My heart pounds in anticipation, my lips parting slightly as I angle my head. But instead of kissing me, Damian pauses, his face hovering near mine.

"You haven't been honest with me, Alexis Hartley," he hisses. "Why the fuck does The Brotherhood want you so badly?"