Page 135 of Blake

Then she looked down.

Her wrists were secured in front of her with plastic restraints.

“Oh, God.”

The rest came back all at once.

The masked men. The struggle in the mudroom. Being dragged across the gravel while she screamed Blake’s name.

She remembered fighting to get away from the men who’d thrown her into the SUV. Remembered one of them striking her when she’d begun struggling again less than a mile from the farmhouse.

Devon remembered falling against the rear passenger window. A few frantic heartbeats later, the man who’d hit her jabbed a needle into the side of her neck.

Everything went dark after that. But not before her drugged mind conjured up one last image of Blake.

She could see him so clearly, even now. Lying on that floor, unmoving.

Oh, God.

Devon bent forward, pressing her bound hands against her mouth to keep from crying out. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. Not after everything they’d been through.

He’d convinced her surviving wasn’t the same as living. She’d finally begun believing she could have a future that didn’t revolve around fear.

A future with him.

Her chest tightened, and it felt like a giant fist was squeezing her breaking heart. She wanted to cry. Wanted to curl into a ball and shut out the memory of what she’d seen.

But she couldn’t.

Not here. Not when she had no idea what these people intended to do with her.

Devon pulled a deep breath and forced herself to look around. The room was small, with no windows and only one door.

A metal table stood against the opposite wall, accompanied by two chairs. A plastic bucket sat near the bed.

Above the door, a small camera pointed toward the center of the room.

They’re watching.

She examined the restraints around her wrists. They were tight enough to leave angry red marks, but she could move her hands a few inches apart.

Devon tried twisting her wrists, attempting to escape. The only thing she accomplished was causing the plastic to dig painfully into her skin.

“Dammit.”

A metallic click sounded from the door.

Devon immediately lowered her hands. The lock turned and a broad-shouldered man entered the room.

He wore dark trousers and a black shirt that stretched across his chest. His hair was cropped close to his scalp, and a thin scar ran from the corner of his mouth toward his jaw.

His cold gaze traveled over her. “Finally awake.”

Devon said nothing.

The man stepped aside, allowing someone else to enter. He was older, perhaps in his early fifties, with neatly styled silver-streaked hair and an expensive charcoal suit.

Everything about him looked polished, from his immaculate shoes to the understated watch on his wrist. He carried himself with the relaxed confidence of someone accustomed to getting whatever he wanted.