Page 27 of No Sweeter Poison

The last thing I hear before everything fades is gunfire.

CAPTIVE

Dahlia

T he sun is hot on my shoulders when I finally open my eyes.

Karina must’ve forgotten to close the curtains last night. Either that or she’s up before me, scrolling through all of Brent’s text messages from the night before. For once I wish she would sleep in and enjoy the fact that she’s on vacation instead of being at his beck and call. The sun continues its ascent across the sky and its warmth travels from my shoulder blades up the back of my neck. Sighing, I turn over and reach for my phone on the nightstand but don’t find it. Did it fall on the floor last night or did I leave it under my pillow?

All of ten seconds pass before I realize I’m not in my hotel room and this isn’t my bed.

The grogginess of sleep is at odds with the shock of panic rushing through my bloodstream. I push myself into an upright position and everything hurts. My arms and legs are covered in bruises, my chest aches, and when I reach up to push back my hair, I feel a bandage at my temple. Memories from last night hit me in waves.

If not for the pounding in my skull and the injuries on my body, I might think this was all a terrible dream. Where am I? I’m not sure. Someone changed my clothes last night because I’m wearing a black peignoir set I’ve never seen before and my stomach rolls at the thought of being touched while unconscious.

I’m lying on a four-poster bed with a sheer white canopy overhead that shifts with the early morning breeze. All along the left-hand side of the room are large, colonial style windows with rounded arches. On the opposite end of the room, a set of double doors leads to a balcony. I’m on the first floor and beyond the line of shrubbery surrounding what I assume is the perimeter of the house, I see a massive pool, gazebo, and row of lounge chairs.

My shoes aren’t here, at least not that I can see, so my feet are cold when they touch the hardwood floors. I spin in a full circle and try to take in my surroundings but it’s too much to process at once. Sandy colored walls, mosaic ceiling, antique chandelier, wood burning fireplace. And several doors.

I rush to open each of them.

Balcony doors, locked. One door leads to an en-suite bathroom. There’s a shower and a porcelain clawfoot tub. In different circumstances, I might pause to marvel at the beautiful tile work and mosaic on the ceiling but I shut this door and move onto the next. Walk-in closet that’s empty, save for a fuzzy white robe hanging on a single silk hanger.

My fingers are trembling by the time I pull on the handle and shut this door too.

This has to be some sort of vacation suite. It’s too big, not to mention luxuriously furnished. The room is large enough for a sitting area by the fireplace equipped with a lounge chair, love seat, and small sofa. A glass coffee table sits atop a deep red and yellow rug. On the end of the room where the bed is, there’s a wardrobe almost as high as the ceiling and it’s the same deep espresso color as the gothic settle bench across from it.

Am I dreaming? Why does none of this feel real?

Not far from the vanity is the last door I haven’t tried yet. The doorknob turns before I can reach it myself.

A man steps inside with a silver tray in one hand and his right arm in a gray sling. Despite this, he opens the door on his own and a muscle in his jaw jumps when he bumps his shoulder by accident. My breath catches and he looks up.

It’s Alejandro.

He shuts the door behind him and expels a deep breath. “You’re awake.”

Too many questions rattle around inside my skull. I blurt the first one that takes form on my lips. “Who changed my clothes?”

“My sister, Lettie.”

“Why?”

“Your clothes were covered in blood.” He gestures to the arm in the sling as if it should be obvious. “Thank you, by the way. The bullet nicked an artery but you must’ve tied your blouse tight enough that it stopped the bleeding almost completely. I hardly noticed until the doctor—”

“Where am I? Why are we here? We should be in a hospital—”

He extends his hand—the injured one—in an effort to placate me. “Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I rake my fingers through my hair. “We…we were hit and…oh my God.” I meet his gaze. “Did anyone else get hurt?”

He moves into the room and I stumble in my effort to put distance between us. He’s completely calm up until the moment he sets the tray down on the coffee table and notices me moving away from him. I grip the side table behind me as if it might offer some sort of protection.

“You…” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “You had a gun. People were…they were shooting at us…”

Not us. Him.

In an instant, the color in his eyes shifts from hazel to black. “Dahlia.”