Page 4 of Possessed By Roman

“Okay. The jet can be ready in thirty minutes. I’m coming to get you.”

“I can drive.”

“And leave your truck sitting at the airport for God knows how long? I’ll be downstairs in ten.”

The call ends before I can argue. I grab the duffel and leave the apartment, stepping into the elevator as the doors slide shut behind me.

For the first time since Dan called, I allow myself to think about what happens if I’m too late. I shut the thought down immediately. Focus on what I can control.

Get to North Carolina. Find Cora. Keep her alive. Secure the evidence. Then find Dan.

By the time I reach the lobby, Royal’s car is already pulling up outside. I climb in without a word.

He takes one look at my face and pulls away from the curb. “What happened?”

I stare through the windshield at the empty Atlanta streets ahead of us. “I think someone just took Dan.”

Royal’s expression hardens.

“And now they may be coming for his daughter.”

Chapter One

Cora

I’m staring at the same paragraph in my textbook for the fifth time when someone knocks on my dorm room door. I ignore it. Not because I don’t hear it, but because I have an exam tomorrow morning. I’m already behind on studying.

And if whoever is standing outside thinks I’m sacrificing another fifteen minutes of my life to hear about a party, lend someone clothes, or listen to someone complain about a guy who clearly isn’t worth the tears, they have seriously overestimated my patience.

The knock comes again. More insistent this time. I sigh and drop my highlighter onto the open textbook covering my desk.

“If this is about going out, the answer is no.” There’s silence on the other side of the door.

Then a deep male voice says, “Cora Ryke?”

Every muscle in my body goes still. I definitely don’t know anyone on campus with a voice like that. I glance toward the door.

“Who’s asking?”

“Roman Taylor.”

The name sends a small ripple of recognition through me, but not enough for me to immediately open the door. I’ve heard my father mention Roman before. Many times, actually. He talks about him the way fathers usually talk about people they trust.

Which is saying something because my dad doesn’t trust easily. Still, hearing a name through a closed door is not the same as knowing who is standing behind it. I slowly rise from my chair.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.”

That does absolutely nothing to make me feel better. I move closer to the door but don’t unlock it. “How do I know you’re really Roman Taylor?”

There’s another brief silence before he says, “Your father used to complain that you could talk him into buying you ice cream for dinner when you were ten.”

My mouth falls open. “What?”

“He said you cried when he told you no, and somehow you managed to make him feel guilty for trying to feed you vegetables.”

Okay. That definitely sounds like something my father would tell someone. I unlock the door and pull it open. Then immediately wish I hadn’t. The man standing in front of me is huge. That is the first thought that enters my head, and unfortunately, it refuses to leave.