Talia had been counting the seconds. Not literally, her head was too fogged with fear for numbers, but by heartbeats. Each thud in her chest was a reminder that she was alive, and each passing thud whispered that it could be her last.
The warehouse stank of motor oil, dust, and something acrid she couldn’t place. Zane’s men had thrown her into a small office room at the edge of the building, the kind with a single grimy window and a warped door that didn’t close properly. A bare bulb overhead swayed and hummed, making her feel like she was inside a fish tank, everything distorted and fragile.
Her wrists burned from the zip ties. Her mouth was dry. She thought about screaming, but the memory of Zane’s lazy, cold grin when they’d dragged her from Club Eden stopped her. That grin had said,
