"Rest," he said, not looking back at me. "The sedative will take a few more hours to fully clear your system. There are clothes in the dresser, a bathroom through that door." He nodded toward another panel in the wall I hadn't noticed. "Everything you need has been provided."
"Except my freedom," I said bitterly.
He turned then, his profile sharp against the dim light. "Freedom is overrated, Grace. Safety, protection, belonging—these are what matter. These are what I'm offering you."
"I don't want anything you're offering. I want to go home."
"You are home." His voice was soft but implacable. "You're just not used to it yet."
With that, he opened the door and stepped through, closing it behind him. I heard the distinct sound of a lock engaging—once, twice, three times.
I was alone.
I sat frozen for several minutes, listening to the silence, waiting to see if he would return. When it became clear he wouldn't, I forced my still-sluggish body to move, sliding off the bed and testing my balance on shaky legs.
The room spun slightly, but I could stand, could walk. That was something.
I made a circuit of the room, checking for exits, for weapons, for anything that might help me escape. The windows, when I pulled back the heavy curtains, were sealed shut and reinforced with what looked like security glass. The door Rafe had used was solid wood, the locks on his side. The bathroom held nothing more dangerous than expensive toiletries and fluffy towels.
I was trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
I returned to the bed and sat on the edge, my mind racing despite the lingering effects of the sedative. I needed to think clearly. Needed to understand what was happening. Needed to find a way out.
Rafe Conti. The name circled in my mind, fragments of memory surfacing—whispered conversations overheard in my father's study, news reports, rumors. The Contis were a New York family, old money, old power. Like the O'Sullivans, their legitimate businesses were a thin veneer over darker enterprises.
But what did they want with me? What did he want with me?
His words echoed in my mind: "I want everything."
A shudder ran through me, fear and something else—something I refused to acknowledge—twisting in my stomach.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, forcing my breathing to slow, my mind to clear. The drug was still making it hard to think, to plan, to fight.
But it would wear off. And when it did, I would be ready.
Rafe Conti thought he had me. Thought he could keep me. Thought I would eventually understand whatever twisted logic had led him to kidnap me.
He was wrong.
I was an O'Sullivan. And if there was one thing O'Sullivans knew how to do, it was survive.
9
GRACE
Idecided to become the worst captive in history.
If Rafe Conti thought I'd be some docile, grateful prisoner, he was about to get a rude awakening. I might be trapped, but I wasn't broken. Not even close.
The drug had finally worn off, leaving me clear-headed and furious. I'd spent the first few hours exploring my prison—a luxurious bedroom suite with an attached bathroom that would have been impressive if it weren't, you know, a cell. The windows were sealed shut, the door locked from the outside, and there wasn't so much as a butter knife I could use as a weapon.
But I didn't need weapons. I had something better: pure, unadulterated rage.
When the door finally opened again, I was ready. I stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, chin lifted, every inch the O'Sullivan my father had raised me to be. Defiant. Unbroken. Dangerous.
Rafe entered carrying a tray, his expression neutral as he surveyed the room. He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Helooked like he was dropping by for a casual visit, not checking on his kidnapping victim.
"I brought you dinner," he said, setting the tray on a small table near the window. "You must be hungry."
