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1172 Words
I huddled on the couch, legs tucked to my chest, attempting to push away the deep-seated chill that had seeped into my bones. My arms and legs were tingling, my mind drifting in and out of uneasy sleep.
Then—chaos.
The faint, distinct noise of tires grinding on gravel jolted me up.
My stomach churned.
For a moment, I believed I was imagining it, that my paranoia was deceiving me. But then I heard it once more—an engine dying, car doors opening and closing softly.
I forced my aching body to stand, massaging my arms in an effort to dispel the remaining numbness. My heart raced as I walked toward the window, peeking through the glass.
A dark SUV was parked in the driveway, its shaded windows mirroring the faint light of the lamp.
"How did they manage to pass the guards?"
My breath caught as I abruptly recalled the lawyer’s words. Men would come for me.
I wasn't prepared.
A sudden knock on the door had fear rushing through my veins.
"Miss Blackwood," a low voice summoned from the opposite side. "We’re here to guide you home."
"Shit..." I cursed, panicking. I turned quickly, hurrying to the door, my hands awkwardly handling the lock. With a quick turn, I secured it. My hands shook on the doorknob, my nails pressing into my palms.
"Leave!" I yelled hoarsely, pleading.
No one moved. I placed my ear against the door, paying attention. Soft whispers. A mix of motion. Then, at last—the noise of departing footsteps.
I shut my eyes tight, my whole body relaxing with relief as I listened to car doors opening and closing. The engine burst into life again.
"They are departing? Just like that?" I wandered, returning to the couch.
However, just as my heartbeat started to calm, a loud crash from the second floor broke echoed through the house.
"Jesus!" I yelled, placing a hand on my beating heart.
"Who's there?" I asked, but no one replied. I listened, and sure enough, hushed murmurs crept closer.
Oh, dear.
They had not left.
They were sneaking upstairs.
Chilling terror coursed down my back. My initial reaction was to flee, but to where? The main entrance was no longer a possibility. My hands balled into fists, my eyes scanning the room frantically until they settled on the kitchen.
I acted before I had time to think, almost stumbling in my haste. My fingers tightened around the handle of a frying pan, my grasp hard enough to cause pain. My breaths were quick and shallow, and my ears buzzed with the noise of footsteps overhead.
What on earth was I meant to do?
I gulped and compelled my legs to walk. With cautious, deliberate movements, I ascended the staircase, the frying pan lifted in my trembling hands. The corridor on the second floor extended ahead, faintly illuminated, with shadows creeping along the walls.
And then—I noticed them.
Two men in black, motionless and gazing directly at me.
I strengthened my hold on the pan and lifted it higher, my voice sounding more intense than I expected. "I swear to God, I'll swing."
The taller one grinned, his eyebrows raising a bit, as though I were an entertaining little creature.
"Really?" His lips twitched. "With that?"
I did not wait. I swung.
Or—I made an effort.
Before I could finish the movement, a calloused hand seized my wrist, twisting it just enough to make the pain intense but still tolerable. The pan fell to the ground, no longer useful. An instant later, another set of hands seized me, arms encircling my body, holding me still.
I struck with my foot. I battled. I tried all I could to escape, but it was futile.
"Let me go!" I struggled, my breathing quick and frantic. "You had no authority—"
One of them let out a sigh, completely indifferent. "You’re making this harder than it needs to be."
Harder? Harder?
I was being forced out of my own house against my wishes, and they believed I was the issue?
I sank my nails into the arm holding me back, my voice becoming poisonous. "I don’t care what contract I signed —I will never love him!"
They hardly responded, yet I noticed the subtle smirks passed between them.
One of them laughed dismissively. "Good thing love isn’t required"
My stomach churned as they dragged me outside, the icy night air hitting me like a barrier. The SUV door was forcefully opened, and before I had a chance to push back, I was pushed inside.
The doors were secured.
I squished myself into the seat, my breaths irregular as I stared at them. "At the very least, allow me to gather a bag! You can’t honestly think I would leave like this."
"Your husband is quite... possessive," one of them remarked, looking at me through the rearview mirror as the SUV started to drive. "He prefers that you don’t bring anything he hasn't personally provided."
My blood boiled. "That's crazy."
The driver merely shrugged, showing no reaction. "That's Mr. Kroger for you."
I scoffed. "Then he’s just a control freak."
One of them let out a soft laugh.
I hated the sound of it.
He reclined a bit, placing his elbow on the center console. "He's a decent person. You will be pleased."
Pleased?
I emitted a laughter devoid of humor. "Who in their right mind would desire me after what occurred? After that scandal?" My voice dropped to a lower pitch, filled with bitterness. "Only a weirdo would."
Neither of them replied.
I examined them closely, looking for something—anything—that might reveal what type of man I had just been delivered to.
Yet, all I received were enigmatic brief comments.
"Does he really have any interests?" I inquired, my tone laced with artificial irony. "Or does he merely lounge about, counting his wealth and making people miserable?"
"Sharpening blades," one of them remarked nonchalantly.
My lips clamped together. I blinked. "Sorry?"
The driver grinned. "He possesses great skill with knives."
A long silence.
My heart raced.
"Are you referring to kitchen knives? Is he a chef?" I made an effort, seeking to hold onto something ordinary.
He laughed. "Not quite."
My skin tingled.
Oh, my goodness.
I had presumed—given his wealth—that he likely played golf or another overly costly sport. However, knives?
"What is his occupation?" I inquired, my tone just above a murmur.
No one answered.
The man in the passenger seat looked at me, his face giving no clue.
"He's ... trained," he stated plainly.
I was unsure of what that signified.
And I didn’t believe I desired to.
My breathing began to quicken. My fingers sank into my thighs.
What if I had simply wed a human trafficker?
What if I had been *traded*—not for marriage, but for something much more dreadful?
Oh, my God.
I hadn't even looked at the bloody contract.
- Writer
