His to Take (Wicked Lovers #9)(12)
Author: Shayla Black

Bailey’s eyes flew open and she gripped the sheet. That damn nightmare. Again. Even in her warm nightshirt, she shivered.

Panting in the silence, she looked around the room frantically. The dream still flashed vivid images in her head, as it always did. She’d been having these same visions almost nightly for as long as she could remember. Her parents had told her repeatedly it was just a dream, assured her that no part of it was real. Even the psychologist they’d insisted she see as a kid had explained that the subconscious can confront a person with their greatest fears and make the dream-state experience seem very real, yadda, yadda, yadda. But everything about the nightmares sure felt as if she’d been through that hell.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Bailey tried to compartmentalize the fear, remind herself that it wasn’t genuine or rational. She lived alone in a little house close to downtown Houston, not in the middle of farmland somewhere snow fell thick and heavy. She’d never been covered in blood. For heaven’s sake, she’d grown up in suburban Houston with every advantage a kid with two attentive parents could have. Mom had homeschooled her until ninth grade. Dad had worked for a small company that believed in family, so he’d been home for dinner every night. She had been to every dance class they could afford, then attended a high school for the performing arts. Everything had been picture-perfect in life—except their deaths in a car crash shortly after high school graduation and these damn dreams.

Why did the visions plague her almost every night when she closed her eyes?

Whatever. She refused to let the fear drive her from bed again. She’d danced hard today and she had another round of grueling rehearsals tomorrow. No way she’d get through it without sleep.

Roll over. Cuddle up to your pillow. Think of something happy.

Bailey sighed. That tactic hadn’t worked before. It probably wouldn’t work now.

Flinging her blanket aside, she opened her eyes, pondering what might be on TV. Maybe she’d just go into the kitchen and make some popcorn and watch a movie.

Suddenly, a shadow eclipsed her—one in the shape of a man. Before she could scream, his hand clamped over her mouth. She tried to scream around it, but the sound came out like a whimper. A thousand terrible possibilities pelted her brain at once. She remembered hearing on the news last week that there was a serial rapist in the area.

Oh, please God, no . . .

His other hand came closer. Would he rip her clothes? Defile her? Bailey tried to writhe and thrash. Escape—she had to. Somehow. She was an athlete. A fighter, damn it.

In the next instant, Bailey noticed something in his darkened hand. He brought it closer. Before she could fight or flee, she felt a prick in the side of her neck.

Shock jolted through her system. Then . . . nothing.

Chapter Three

BAILEY floated in and out, feeling hazy and in no hurry to wake up. Something nagged at her that she should. But rehearsal wasn’t until later in the day, right?

Toasty warmth and a heavy head dragged her back under. She couldn’t remember her bed ever being quite so comfortable. She still slept on her childhood mattress, which had always been too soft. But this felt firmer and a little bit perfect. She melted into it. Well, except her shoulders. Why were her hands above her head? It was making her nightshirt bunch around her hips. Something dug into her forearms. She never slept in this position. Weird . . .

She tugged to pull her arms down, but nothing. They were stuck. No, tethered. Restrained.

The realization jolted her eyes open, and she found herself staring at an unfamiliar room, unable to move. Her heart started thundering in her chest. She bit back a scream.

A black down comforter covered her. The walls were some shade of gray, as was the leather ottoman at the end of the bed. Everything else was a blend of woods. Floor-to-ceiling shutters in a cherry tone, a dresser in some rustic finish, the darker hardwood floors dominating the large space, even some of the art on the shelves. A nightstand with modern lines and a contemporary light fixture sat next to the bed. Nothing else. Not a personal picture or memento anywhere. Spartan. And totally alien.

Cold fear snaked through her system. The attacker in her house last night rushed through her memory, and the truth set in: She’d been taken.

Bailey couldn’t hold her terror in anymore. She screamed.

The door flew open, and a man busted in, slamming it behind him, then rushed to her side. No hint of warmth softened his dark face or greenish eyes, though he appeared surprisingly concerned for a kidnapper. Looking more than a little rugged, the short, sharp cut of his black hair accentuated his severity. He stood tall, about six and a half feet. Muscles bulged everywhere under the tight black T-shirt seemingly painted over his chest. God, he was huge. Scary.