Page 21 of Undying Resilience
He takes another step closer, and before I really think it through, I lunge forward. The knife cuts into his arm, but it barely phases him. Before I can pull back, I feel a sharp prick in my neck. He grabs my wrist and slams it against the counter.
The knife clatters to the floor as the first wave of drowsiness crashes over me. I stumble backward, but the man grabs me. My struggles are weak as the drug takes over. When my knees give out, he drags me toward the door.
The last thing I remember thinking is that I should’ve gone with the guys.
. . .
Harsh light filters through my eyelids, and I bring my hands over my eyes. I’m on a hard surface, and it feels like someone’s been hitting my head with a hammer.
Where am I?
When I finally open my eyes, panic sets in.
I’m in an empty room, lying on the wood floor in a corner. The overhead light is on, which is killing my eyes, but I’m glad for it. Otherwise, I would’ve woken up in the dark.
Slowly, I climb to my feet, leaning against the wall for support. There are two windows on the one wall, but it’s pitch-black outside, so I can’t see where I am.
I move to the first of three doors in here. It leads to an empty closet, and the second to a small bathroom. I catch my reflection in the mirror, and I wince. I look like I’ve been through hell. And on top of that, there’s blood on my tank top.
How the hell did that get there?
Back in what seems to be a bedroom, I try to open the third door. It doesn’t budge, like it’s locked from the outside.
Fuck. Fuck. What’s going on?
“Let me out,” I yell, wincing at the way it makes my head pound.
I try the door again, pulling harder, but it still doesn’t move. With a groan, I sink to the floor and rest my head in my hands.
Think. Think! I was about to make myself dinner, and then... Nothing.
I hear movement below me. Voices—gruff, deep, and angry. Then the pounding of footsteps, coming higher, closer.
Shit.
As there’s movement on the other side of the door, I scramble to my feet. When it opens, an angry man steps through, followed by two burly men dressed in all black. Something about the first guy is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place how or why exactly.
“You’re awake.”
The world is spinning—I must’ve gotten up too fast. Carefully, I back up until I’m leaning against the far wall.
“Do you know who I am?” the man asks.
I shake my head.
He smiles, but there’s nothing welcoming about it. “I know who you are. Wren Taylor, the unfortunate soul who happened to catch the attention of three men who, apparently, don’t care enough to keep you safe.”
I clench my fists behind my back. “Who’re you?”
“Jordan Williams.”
Williams. Edgar Williams’ son?
No, Oliver said he didn’t have any children.
Maybe another nephew?
“And what do you want, Jordan Williams?” Somehow I manage to keep the shaking in my voice to an imperceptible minimum. I’m honestly not sure how, because there’s only one thing Jordan could want, and it has me feeling sick to my stomach.