No Police, No Hospital

The estate grounds had turned into chaos.

Reporters swarmed the front lawn, alerted by some unseen tip that something had gone wrong inside. Guests poured out behind me, some recording, others just staring.

"Please." My voice cracked as hands reached toward me. "Don't just film me! Help me!"

"Don't touch her," one reporter snapped.

"Stand back," another called, though nobody actually moved to stop anything.

The doors slammed open behind me. Damon and Killian emerged together, scanning the crowd until they found me.

"Look at her," Damon said, loud enough to carry. "Pathetic."

"So ugly," Killian added. "Pathetic."

"Please," I was sobbing now, stumbling backward. "Don't let them take me! You don't understand!"

I broke free for half a second before a hand closed around my wrist.

"Don't touch me!" I screamed, wrenching away.

"Baby," Killian said, almost amused, "nobody here wants a lawsuit before lunch."

I scanned the crowd for anyone who might actually help instead of just record. "Help me! Someone help me!"

Nobody moved.

Then, off to my right, a section of garden wall swung open. The man in grey stood in the gap. He  held a side gate wide open, and I saw it as my escape; using the last of strength in me, I pushd off Killian.

"The door." "Run." I whispered to my legs and dashed off.

I didn't ask questions about the man; I just ran past him.

"Mira, come on!" His voice followed me through. "You can't outrun this alone!"

I burst onto the open street beyond the estate walls, lungs burning, white silk torn and stained.

"Ma'am, you can't be here," someone near a parked vehicle shouted. "This is restricted. This area is closed."

"I know," I gasped. "I'm sorry!"

"Hey, wait!" The man's voice, closer now.

A van door slid open just ahead, the driver mid-conversation with someone on the curb. I shoved past him and climbed inside.

"That's not your van!" he shouted.

I was already sliding behind the wheel, both hands pressed protective over my stomach.

"Don't be afraid, baby," I whispered. "Mommy's getting you out of here."

Killian reached the vehicle as I found the ignition, palm flat against the glass, his voice infuriatingly calm.

"Open the door before this gets embarrassing for everyone."

"Get away from me!"

I slammed the gas. The van lurched forward, scattering bodies, and in the mirror Killian shrank smaller behind me, his expression never once losing that composure.

Inside the estate, Damon stood at a window watching the chaos below, phone pressed to his ear.

"No police," he said. "No hospital."

His gaze hardened, listening to Killian's voice on the other end.

"I want her quiet. And breathing. Bring her back."

He hung up and turned from the window without another word.

Five minutes later, Killian stood in front of a bank of monitors, watching grainy footage of a stolen van weaving through traffic three miles out. A faint, almost fond smile pulled at his mouth.

"There you are," he murmured.

He lifted a radio handset, voice softening into something that would have sent ice through anyone who'd ever heard it before.

"You want to play hide-and-seek? Let's play."

********************

In a separate room across the street, the man who heled me escape stood over his own bank of screens, his team already pulling GPS data.

"We've got movement," his tech said.

"Track the van." He reached for his jacket. "Don't lose her."