Chapter 2

Emma Volkov

Pain woke me before fear did.

A sharp, pulsing ache throbbed through my ankle, spreading upward in angry waves, dragging me out of restless darkness. For a moment I didn’t remember where I was. Then the scent hit me—linen, antiseptic, something faintly herbal—and memory crashed back like a blade.

Lucas Moretti.

The car.

The night.

My eyes flew open.

I wasn’t in the SUV anymore. I lay on a wide bed draped in ivory sheets, the mattress soft enough to swallow me whole. Sunlight filtered through tall windows veiled by sheer curtains that fluttered gently, as if the room itself were breathing.

Too beautiful.

Too calm.

My body tensed instantly, adrenaline slicing through the lingering haze in my head. I tried to sit up—

—and gasped.

Pain shot through my ankle, white-hot and unforgiving. I bit down on a cry, my fingers curling into the sheets as I forced myself upright. My foot was wrapped in a neat white bandage, swelling visible beneath it.

I scanned the room, heart hammering.