“What about you?” I murmur, ready for a nap.
“There’s time,” he simply says, straightening my jeans.
The door opens, but I’m so limp that Bedlam eases out of the car with me still straddling him. I only have enough strength to hug his shoulders. He keeps my legs around his waist by supporting the backs of my thighs. His strength has never surprised me. I’m weightless when I’m in his arms.
I’m carried up a flight of stairs. Only when a door closes do I register that the garage has shutters, not doors. My eyes fly open and I immediately recognize the sparse furnishings of Bedlam’s townhouse.
“I thought you were taking me home,” I say.
“I just didn’t specify that it was my home.” He enters the kitchen and opens a door that leads to a set of stairs.
“Bedlam, I need to get back to the garage.” I push away from his chest, panic waking me further.
“I’m sorry.” His grip on my thighs turn punishing when we reach the bottom of the stairs. We’re in some kind of cellar. Gooseflesh immediately coats my arms from the cold air surrounding us.
“Bedlam!” I begin to struggle, but it’s too late. He yanks another door open, this one metal. In seconds I’m deposited onto a hard bed. All the air in my lungs explodes. I cough. The stale air doesn’t help. “Bedlam, what the hell are you doing?” I say between wheezing coughs.
He backs out of the small room. “Keeping you safe until I find that sick motherfucker.” He shuts the door, drenching me in complete darkness. I’m on my feet and pounding against the metal, screaming his name repeatedly.
What I hear next freezes my insides.
A lock clicks into place.
Chapter Thirteen
I CLOSE my eyes against the darkness, listening to Bedlam’s footsteps recede. The bastard. I’m squeezing my fists so hard my fingernails dig into my palm. Pretty soon the skin will break and I will draw blood. I lowered my guard around him and this is what I get. I can take care of myself. He doesn’t have to imprison me in this secret bunker beneath his townhouse. Here I thought I knew every inch of this place.
My breathing, ragged and quick, becomes the only sound pushing against the utter silence surrounding me. The darkness is like a thick blanket around my skin. If I don’t calm down, I’ll hyperventilate. A tight space isn’t normally a problem for me, but my heightened emotions are getting in the way of achieving a mind-space where I can think, process. I want to thrash. To scream. I want to slam my fist into the metal door. But injuring myself is the stupidest thing I can do.
Then Brody’s voice at the back of my mind snaps me into action. When I trained with him, he emphasized taking control. If I’m in control, I will win. No control means no clarity. Mistakes will be made. Who knows how long Bedlam plans on keeping me here? If I’m to make it to the starting line, I need focus.
I drop to the floor and cross my legs. Back straight, I stretch my arms out until my wrists are resting on my knees. Once my body settles into the lotus pose, I take a deep breath through my nose, then exhale slowly through my mouth. I repeat the breathing exercise several times until my panic and anger retreats and the darkness becomes a place of calm. My heartbeat slows as I begin to hum with my exhale. I call upon all the meditative techniques Brody has taught me, starting with the relaxing of my leg muscles. I continue until every part of my body is no longer clenched into a tight coil of retribution. Oh, don’t get me wrong. Bedlam will get what’s coming to him. But before I can hurt him, I have to get out of this box first.
When my breathing is steady and I’m centered, I realize I’m in this situation because he wants to protect me. However misplaced and misguided his intentions are, they’re coming from a good place. I will still have to physically hurt him for making me seem like I’m unable to take care of myself by leaving me here. I do appreciate his concern. I really do.
I use the beats of my heart as a timer, mentally calculating the length of my meditation. Once I hit the thirty-minute mark, I pull myself out of the trancelike state and thank Brody for teaching me how to avoid freaking out.
My eyelids flutter open, and I wait a couple minutes for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I thank the racing gods there’s a slit beneath the door where light creeps in. Bedlam must have flicked on a light switch. When I can make out the outline of the door, I rest my palms against the metal and use it to push myself up to my feet. Then I slide my palm where a doorknob should be. Smooth surface meets my exploration. Unwilling to believe what my mind is telling me, I continue to feel around for the knob. Nothing.
“Of course,” I say in a whisper. What is it about being bathed in darkness that forces you to speak softly? “Bedlam, you asshole.”
Unwilling to lose the calm I’ve built to cursing my former lover—because there’s no way I’m ever sleeping with him again after this—I turn away from the knobless door. The faint outline of the single bed to my right divides the space in half. To my left is an assortment of shapes I can’t completely make out.
Taking a step forward, I stretch my arms out. I rein in the instinct to flail around. Steady is better in these kinds of situations. Not that I’ve ever found myself trapped in a tight box. At a snort, I take another step.
“There’s got to be a light switch somewhere.” Because Bedlam can’t be that cruel. Leaving me in
