The scent hit her first—chicken soup. Heather stirred awake to the rich aroma of chicken soup. Her eyes fluttered open, groggy and slow. She turned her head slightly—too tired to sit up fully. The room didn't look familiar.
Her brow furrowed. Where am I? A wave of confusion hit. She blinked, trying to sit up, but her body was slow to respond. Too tired and heavy. Her mouth tasted like tequila and regret.
Her last clear memory: being at a bar—or maybe a club—for the first time in five years. She had just recently returned back to the city a week ago. A man had approached her, he was cocky and smooth, and he promised to make her night unforgettable.
She hadn't had the energy—or desire—to say no. He was hot. Very hot. She remembered thinking that at least. And Heather—tired, reckless, maybe even lonely—had said yes.
She must've followed him. And now she was in... his house?
She glanced around the room, taking in the expensive décor, the silk sheets, the low hum of the tv.
Water was running somewhere. A shower? Maybe he was showering and he'd return and explain all this.
She felt her stomach tightening. She didn't remember anything after leaving the club.
She sighed, settling back into the pillow. She tried to sit up—but something held her back. Heather tried to pull her arm again. But was pulled back. She turned her head slowly. Her right hand was cuffed to the bedpost.
"What the hell...?" she muttered.
What kind of night was last night?
She yanked at the restraint, testing its strength, but it held firm.
What the hell happened?
The sound of the running shower stopped. Heather exhaled in relief. He was done. He'd come out now, see her, explain—fix this.
Still, a dangerous thought slipped into her mind!
The idea arrived too naturally. The man had been beautiful—at least, from what she remembered. His hands were big, his mouth sharp, his eyes bold—she could picture him walking out now, fresh from the shower, steam trailing his skin—
Heather bit her lip, and shifted slightly toward the bathroom door, lips parting, spine arching just slightly—not entirely intentional, but also... not entirely innocent. If he came out now, maybe they'd—
But before the bathroom door could open— The main door swung open instead.
Heather snapped her attention toward it, to a woman in heels stepping in. Another man. A butler. They all stared.
Heather paused. Her cheeks turned red and her face hot. She quickly adjusted her pose, sitting stiff, and tugging the blanket up over herself with her free hand.
This was not the moment to feel sexy.
"What is she... doing?" the man muttered, unable to look away.
The woman's face clenched. She stepped closer now, eyeing her like she was something fragile—or foreign.
"And this is the right woman?" she asked, sizing Heather up like she was inspecting a couch she didn't order.
The man beside her nodded. "It wasn't easy finding her, but I did."
Heather stiffened. Finding me? They spoke about her like she wasn't even there.
The butler whispered something in the woman's ear. Her gaze sharpened. "But someone else personally brought her here?"
"Ah, yes. He's one of us."
One of them? Had she been kidnapped? Sold? She looked at the woman carefully, searching for something familiar. Who is she?
'Can someone explain what I'm doing here?"
The woman's eyes remained on the cuff, then frowned. "Why is she cuffed?" she asked flatly.
"She... wasn't calm," the man answered. "We had to—"
"Nonsense. Uncuff her." The woman ordered.
Heather looked between them. She wasn't sure if this was a kidnapping or a rescue. Neither felt comforting.
The man nodded slowly. "I'll get the key from Quinn."
Heather shifted slightly, testing the cuff again as the man left the room. Within moments, he returned—this time with another man.
Quinn looked like he'd been dragged through hell—bloodied, limping, bruises blooming across his skin.