Vendetta - Lane Sienna (чтение книг TXT) 📗
Maybe it's better to let him handle it. If things go according to plan, she's better off dying now.
George’s pinched features relax, his shoulders slumping. “Just make her go away.”
I crouch and check to see if she's gained consciousness but she's still out cold, her breathing even. I get up, fold the heavy envelope and shove it in the back pocket of my jeans. Then I bend down, picking Leighton Moore up, and throw her over my shoulder, walking away from the darkness of the parking lot that just decided her destiny.
For something so small, she’s not light at all, and it's not a short walk to my car hidden in an alley a couple of blocks down. It's even longer because I have to take a couple of detour alleys, just to make sure I stay out of sight. There are cameras all over this city; someone is bound to notice a man carrying an unconscious woman over his shoulder. Not to mention that in a few hours when they realize she’s missing, someone will be looking for exactly that.
It's so fucking cold I can barely feel my limbs, and my breath’s coming out in puffs every time I breathe out. I curse as my foot slips on the icy pavement and I almost fall down. She makes a whimpering noise as I strengthen my hold, ignoring the placement of my hands on her ass.
Please don't wake up. I know the minute she wakes up she’ll start kicking and screaming and the last thing I need is attracting someone's attention to check what all the commotion is about.
I shake my head, muttering another curse. I should have just left her there. It's not like I have an overwhelming urge to play her knight in shining armor. God knows she's not a damsel in distress. The woman is poison, like all the Moores are. Unfortunately, despite what people think about me, I can't stand men hitting women, and I'm sure as fuck George wouldn't have minded taking another swing at her. We may be criminals, but we're not complete assholes.
She moans again as I put her in the backseat of my black SUV and buckle her in. I round the back, and open up the trunk, looking for something to bind her with. I shake off the fleeting thought that maybe she wouldn't fight me. It's Leighton Moore, for fuck's sake, of course she would.
Fishing out the cable ties, I go back and secure her wrists, then her ankles. It doesn't seem like enough. I don't want to see her eyes when she wakes up, which could be any second now, so I remind myself to hurry the fuck up. I take off the scarf from around her neck, feeling the silk under my fingers for just a second. Then I pull out my pocketknife, and slice it in half. I blindfold her, and then gag her with the other half.
At this point I know it’s probably overkill, but I've never kidnapped a woman before, so who knows? Plus, it's Leighton. She's not just any woman.
Of course I know Leighton Moore. I only wish I didn't.
I knew who she was the first time I laid my eyes on her. It didn’t make any fucking difference in the grand scheme of things. I was doomed to keep seeing her and not being able to do anything about it.
Shaking off that thought, I finally get in the car and start it, backing out and getting the hell away from this place.
When I'm far enough away, I pull over into a secluded woodland area on the side of the road and just sit there, my car idling. What the fuck do I do with her? I could take her to my place, I guess, but I'm barely ever there. Most of the time I’m either at my uncle’s house or I’m out, working. I take out my phone and stare at it, contemplating. I glance back at her, and realize I have no choice. I have to call my uncle.
LEIGHTON
My head aches, the throbbing sharp and unbearable.
I try to open my eyes, blinking furiously, but something's in the way.
I’ve been blindfolded.
I try to move, to sit up, but I've been restrained with something sharp cutting into my wrists tied in front of me. My ankles won't move either. My mouth is gagged with silky cloth, and I’m so parched I would give anything for some water.
I squirm on the seat, the leather squeaking under me as I try to move. I make a noise against the gag, trying to scream, but it comes out like a pathetic moan.
Whoever is driving ignores me.
The motion of the car is making me feel nauseous. I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified in my life. I squirm again, screaming into the gag. The music volume goes up.
Fucking asshole.
Where are they taking me? Who is driving?
I can feel the seat belt against my chest, holding me in place—at least on the outside. Inside I’m screaming, frantically needing to escape. I take short breaths in and out of my nose, trying to calm myself. I can’t afford to panic right now; I need to think.
It can’t be more than thirty minutes later when the car slows, and then comes to a halt. I listen intently over the music trying to figure out what's going on—and then there’s silence. The door opens, and then slams shut.
George? Devon?
Or someone else completely?
In this case, I think I’d rather the known devil.
My door opens what feels like years, but can’t be more than minutes, later, and someone leans over to unbuckle me. I smell a hint of spicy masculine cologne, something light and expensive. Familiar. I lean in, letting the scent envelop me.
I’m gripped by my hips and pulled to the edge of the seat, and then something hard digs into my stomach as he flips me over his shoulder. I flinch at the pain in my ribs from his not-so-gentle handling. He walks quickly, taking long strides, not once faltering.
We climb some stairs, each step making my stomach queasier. His steps are even, until he stops, and I hear the telltale sound of keys clinging against each other. He doesn't put me down even while he unlocks the door. His breathing is steady, he isn’t even panting.
Devon Andre. It’s him; I know it. He throws me onto a soft bed like I'm a sack of potatoes. I bounce once, before falling face-first into the mattress. Without warning, he flips me over and takes the blindfold off.
I stare into green eyes, framed with thick black lashes.
I don't know why I feel relieved. They don't look friendly at all.
Hard, cold eyes. Sinister.
He grins, eyeing me blatantly from head to toe, and it makes me shiver.
“Leighton Moore,” he says in a mocking tone, stuffing the piece of my scarf he used to blindfold me in his jeans pocket. The sound of his voice sends chills up my spine. He leans into my personal space, keeping eye contact the whole time and untying the gag at the back of my head.
The gravity of the situation settles in around me. It's not a dream, is all I keep thinking. This is real. Shit.
He walks out of the room, leaving me alone and helpless. And really fucking confused, because I can’t think of a single reason why he would do this.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I glance around, taking in my location. My eyes scan the walls, frantically looking for a window. When they finally land on one I exhale in relief. Maybe I can get out that way.
Devon walks back in. This time I take him in, dressed in a black T-shirt that hugs his body perfectly, and jeans, his standard. He pulls a knife out of his pocket as he nears the bed, making my breath hitch.
He wouldn't.
Actually, I can't say I have any idea of what he’s capable of, but it seems I’m going to find out. I’ve never heard of him being ruthless, but who knows. Obviously he hates me enough; otherwise I wouldn’t even be here.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do something like this to a Moore?” A humorless laugh escapes his full lips. “And now I have the princess herself,” he continues, turning the knife over in his hand. “What do you think I should do to you?”
He comes closer, so close his controlled breath mingles with my shaky one. Locking his gaze to mine, he slides the ice-cold knife up my leg, from my ankle to my knee. I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the tear that slips out, streaking my cheek. His thumb catches the tear, then he brings it to his lips, his intense eyes boring into mine, and he licks it. The sick bastard. The knife continues its trail, sliding up my thigh and under the knee-length skirt I’m wearing. When he lifts the skirt up slightly, another tear escapes.
