Chapter 2: Abducted

The taillights vanished into the storm, taking with them whatever remained of Calla’s old life.

She stood there for a long moment, drenched and shivering, yet oddly satisfied.

Good riddance.

She turned, ready to step into… whatever life awaited her next.

That’s when she heard it—the low, menacing purr of an engine.

Another car, right behind her, clearly tailing her.

This one was bigger than Damien’s, black with tinted windows.

Calla stiffened instantly.

The engine idled heavily, almost growling.

It stopped, and the driver’s door swung open.

A man stepped out—huge, towering, a black cap pulled low over his face.

Perhaps Damien’s warnings weren’t just threats; maybe he wanted to finish what he’d started that night.

The man called her name.

“Calla.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She took a step back.

“Who are you?” Her voice came sharper than she expected. “Answer me.”

The man didn’t respond. He started toward her.

Instinct took over. She turned and ran.

Or tried to.

But she wasn’t fast. Not after five years of prison food and sleepless nights.

She barely made three steps before he caught her from behind and dragged her back.

“Let me go!” she screamed, thrashing wildly. “Help! Somebody!”

His grip only tightened.

She kicked, twisted, clawed at him. Her nails scraped his arm, but he barely flinched.

“Stop fighting,” he growled—deep, rough, impatient.

“I swear to God,” she gasped, kicking at his shin.

“Keep fighting. Let’s see how far that gets you.”

Without another word, he twisted her arms behind her back and lashed something rough around her wrists—zip ties? Rope? She couldn’t tell; the rain blurred everything.

“Let me go, you sick bastard!” she shouted.

He hoisted her like a sack of flour and threw her into the backseat of the car.

She hit the seat hard, breath whooshing out of her lungs.

The door slammed shut behind her.

Panic clawed up her throat. She kicked at the door, yanked at the handle, screamed until her throat burned.

The car pulled away smoothly, tires cutting through the rain.

“Help!” she shouted again, though she knew no one would hear.

Her world blurred into black and gray and the roar of the rain. Her head throbbed from hitting the seat.

Somewhere between rage and terror, her body shut down.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

When Calla woke, the smell of leather and expensive whiskey filled her senses.

Her hands were free now, though sore, wrists burning where the ties had cut into them.

She blinked blearily.

Gone was the rain. Gone was the cold asphalt.

She was in an office—but not just any office.

Mahogany bookshelves towered over walls lined with leather-bound volumes. The desk was sleek and modern, a dark slab of power.

Tall windows framed in black showed rain still streaking down the glass.

Sitting casually behind the desk was a man.

Killian Black.

She knew him the instant she saw him—though they’d never met. He looked more handsome than he did in papers.

Everyone knew Killian Black.

The man who’d built an empire from blood and backroom deals.

He was the man Damien hated more than anyone in the world.

Killian sat back in his leather chair, swirling a glass of whiskey lazily in one hand. His other hand drummed fingers against the desk—slow and bored.

“Good,” he said lazily. “You’re awake.”

Calla pushed herself up, scowling.

“You…” her voice was hoarse. “You kidnapped me.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I offered you a ride. Why did you run?” he said. “Sorry it wasn’t the welcome-back party you were expecting.”

“You zip-tied me!”

He shrugged, amused. “You were hysterical.”

Calla glared, chest heaving.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she shouted. “And what business have you got with me?”

He chuckled, low and amused. “Killian Black, to answer your first question. Thought you might’ve heard of me.”

She crossed her arms, feeling the prison uniform stick to her soaked skin.

“Unfortunately.”

He leaned back in his chair. “You looked better dry, by the way. But this version’s not bad either.”

Her hands shot up to cover her chest.

“You didn’t have to have your goon tie me up like an animal,” she snapped. “You did not answer my second question.”

He smirked. “What’s with the attitude? Heard you were gentle and docile as a lamb.”

Calla rolled her eyes. “What do you know about me?”

“You’d be shocked at what I know,” he said, sipping his whiskey.

She stared defiantly, lifting her chin. “What does the almighty Killian Black want with me?”

Killian set his drink down, his gaze sharpening.

“Let’s say I’m curious about you. You were married to Damien, then spent five years in prison. Now he’s discarded you like white trash.”

He leaned forward.

“I want to see what you’ll do now that you’re free—and to offer you my protection.”

That stopped her.

“You kidnapped me just to see what I’d do? Also, I do not need your protection.”

“The choice is yours,” he said simply.

He leaned back farther in his chair, looking utterly at ease and smug.

“Just so you know, I fell in love with your boobs the first time I saw you—in that tight white dress, walking up the aisle to marry that spineless asshole.”

Calla gaped.

“You’re sick,” she hissed. “I don’t remember seeing you at the wedding.”

“You didn’t,” he said, shrugging. “But I remember watching the news clips later. Your boobs bouncing just a little with every step. It was… memorable.”

Her cheeks burned. Fury surged through her.

“You’re disgusting,” she snapped.

He grinned, completely unaffected.

“I’m honest.”

She crossed her arms, but it only made him smirk harder.

His eyes dragged over her, lingering with bold, mocking admiration.

“Your boobs are still so nice—what I’d give to fondle them,” Killian said, tilting his glass at her. “With your body all wet.”

It was then she realized just how soaked she was—how the thin shirt clung indecently to her skin, leaving very little to the imagination.

She jerked her arms up, covering herself.

“Pervert,” she muttered.

Killian barked a laugh and gestured lazily toward the door.

He stood.

“We’re done here. Get her some clothes,” he said to someone unseen, “and let her go on her merry way.”

Calla stiffened.

Let her go?

After all that?

She stared at him.

“That’s it?”

“Yes, since you refused my protection.”

The clothes they handed her were simple—jeans, a hoodie, sneakers. She snatched them without a word and changed quickly in a small room, her body trembling from more than just the cold.

When she came back, Killian lounged in an armchair.

He tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was mildly amusing.

“Fair enough,” he said finally, tone lazy, unconcerned.

He flicked his fingers toward a man in a dark suit standing by the door.

“Take her,” Killian ordered, before returning to his drink without a second glance.

The driver led her to a black car idling just outside.

She climbed in, heart pounding, mind racing.

The leather seats were warm against her damp skin.

She didn’t speak until they were on the road.

“Why did he kidnap me, then let me go? Also, from what—or rather who—does he want to protect me?” she asked, voice low.

The driver said nothing.

But Killian’s words echoed in her head: “I want to offer you my protection.”