Marked, Broken and Carrying his Heir
Panic surged through her like electricity.
Hands guided her—or dragged her, she couldn't tell which—across the pavement. A car door opened. She was pushed inside, sandwiched between two large bodies. The door slammed shut.
"Drive," someone said.
The vehicle started moving.
Novalee tried to track the turns, tried to count the minutes, tried to do anything to maintain some sense of where she was going. But the hood disoriented her, and terror made it impossible to think straight. Were they turning left? Right? How long had they been driving? Five minutes? Twenty?