I turn slowly, still pressed against the wall. Three men stand there—two with guns drawn, one speaking into a communication device at his wrist. They're dressed in dark suits, professional and anonymous. One of them I recognize as Victor, the man from Morgan Enterprises. From Blackwood's company.
"Miss Everett," Victor says, his voice calm as if we're meeting for coffee rather than standing over a dead body. "Are you injured?"
I can't answer. Can't move. My mind struggles to process what just happened. A man attacked me, and now he's dead, his blood cooling on the pavement and drying on my skin.
"She's in shock," one of the other men says. "We need to move before someone calls in the gunshot."
Victor approaches me cautiously, hands visible to show he's not a threat. "Miss Everett, we need to leave the area. Mr. Blackwood sent us to ensure your safety."
When I don't respond, he gestures to one of his companions, who approaches with a handkerchief. The man gently wipes some of the blood from my face, his touch impersonal but not unkind.
"Scene needs cleaning," Victor says into his communication device. "One subject down. Package secure but in shock."
Package. Me. I'm the package.
The realization penetrates the fog in my mind, but I still can't speak, can't move. My body has disconnected from my brain, survival instincts shutting down all but the most basic functions.
Victor says something else, but his words don't register. The world has narrowed to the body on the ground, the sticky feeling of blood drying on my skin, the surreal knowledge that I've just witnessed a man being murdered—possibly because of me.
Someone guides me toward a vehicle—the black SUV that's been following me for weeks. I don't resist. Don't speak. Don't think. I simply allow myself to be placed in the back seat, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
The door closes with a soft thud, sealing me in darkness. The vehicle pulls away smoothly, leaving behind a dead man and all semblance of the normal life I thought I'd built.
Through the fog of shock, I register movement outside the windows—streets giving way to a highway, then to a private road winding through dense trees. We pass through gates with armed guards, then continue up a long driveway to a modern mansion of stone and glass, floodlights illuminating well maintained grounds.
CHAPTER 4
The vehicle rolls to a stop in front of imposing double doors. My mind feels disconnected from my body, still processing the horror of what I've just witnessed. The man's body crumpling to the pavement. The blood—so much blood—splattered across my dress, my skin.
"Miss Everett." Victor's voice breaks through my fog. "We've arrived."
I don't move. Can't move. My limbs feel leaden, my thoughts fragmented. Victor opens my door and waits patiently, then sighs when I remain frozen.
"She's still in shock," he tells someone I can't see. "Should I?—"
"I'll handle it."
The new voice is deep, authoritative. Familiar. Gage Blackwood appears at the door of the SUV, his tall frame blocking the security lights. He's changed from his formal attire into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that clings to his broad shoulders.
"Penelope." His voice is gentler now, almost kind. "You're safe here. No one will harm you."
I want to laugh at the absurdity of his statement. Safe? A man was just killed in front of me. His blood is drying on my skin, my dress. And now I'm at some remote estate with the man who's been having me followed for weeks.
When I still don't respond, Gage leans in and unbuckles my seatbelt. His movements are careful, deliberate, as if I'm a wounded animal that might startle.
"I'm going to help you inside now," he says. "You need to get cleaned up and rest."
He slides an arm behind my back, another under my knees, and lifts me from the vehicle with surprising ease. My body finally reacts, tensing against his hold.
"Don't," I whisper, the first word I've spoken since the attack.
He pauses, looking down at me. "You can walk if you prefer."
I nod stiffly, and he sets me down, keeping a steadying hand at my elbow. My legs tremble, but they hold my weight. I follow him numbly through the enormous doorway and into a soaring entrance hall of marble and glass. Indirect lighting casts a warm glow over modern furnishings that probably cost more than my shop's annual revenue.
A woman in her sixties appears, her gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, her expression professional but kind. "The blue guest suite is prepared, Mr. Blackwood."
"Thank you, Mrs. Henderson." Gage guides me toward a sweeping staircase. "Please have tea sent up, and perhaps something stronger. Also, Miss Everett will need fresh clothing."
