Chapter 7 7

The elevator began to ascend. Annemarie slid down the mirrored wall, landing in a heap on the floor. The metal was cold against her burning skin. She pressed her cheek against it, trying to steady the violent spinning in her head.

Her vision was double, the lights above her looking like glowing halos. Her heart was racing so fast it felt like it was vibrating in her chest. She had been drugged. Brenda had poisoned her.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Annemarie blinked, trying to focus. She wasn't in the lobby. The floor was covered in thick, patterned carpet. The hallway was silent and dimly lit with wall sconces. She must have hit the top floor.

She crawled out of the elevator on her hands and knees. The hallway stretched out before her, long and intimidating. She had to find help. She had to find a phone. But her purse was gone; Brenda must have taken it.

She tried to stand, but her legs buckled. She fell against the wall, using it to support her weight. She stumbled down the corridor, her breathing ragged and loud in the quiet space.

Every door she passed looked the same: heavy wood with brass numbers. She tried the handle of one, but it was locked. She tried another. Locked.

Tears of frustration and fear blurred her vision further. The drug was pulling her under, making her limbs heavy and her thoughts muddy. She was going to pass out here, in a strange hotel, and Brenda or Eston would find her.

She reached the end of the hallway. There was one last door, set apart from the others. It was larger, more imposing. A presidential suite. Annemarie leaned her full weight against the handle, expecting it to resist.

To her shock, the handle turned. The door swung inward a few inches.

A cleaning cart was parked just inside the doorway, one of its wheels wedged against the doorjamb, preventing it from closing completely. Annemarie didn't question her luck. She pushed the door open and stumbled inside.

She didn't make it far. Her knees gave out completely, and she collapsed onto the marble floor of the entryway. The cold stone was a blessing against her flushed skin. She lay there, gasping for air, the world fading in and out of focus.

The suite was dark, lit only by the ambient light of the city streaming through massive windows. She could see the skyline of Manhattan, a glittering tapestry of light. The suite was enormous, decorated in dark woods and expensive fabrics.

She tried to call out, to see if anyone was there, but her throat was too dry. All she could manage was a weak cough. She needed water. She saw a bottle on a glass table a few feet away. She dragged herself toward it, her nails scraping against the marble.

Her hand closed around the bottle. She didn't bother looking for a glass. She unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers and poured the water directly into her mouth, spilling half of it down her chin and neck. The cold water soothed the burning in her throat, but it didn't clear her head.

She slumped against the base of the sofa, her energy spent. She was trapped in a cage of her own making. She closed her eyes, ready to let the darkness take her.

Then she heard a sound.

A door opening. Footsteps on carpet.

Annemarie froze. She forced her heavy eyelids open, peering through the darkness toward the source of the noise. A door at the far end of the suite had opened. A silhouette stood in the doorway, backlit by the bright lights of the bathroom.

The man was tall, his shoulders impossibly broad. He was toweling his hair dry, a white bath towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets clung to his chest, catching the light from the city outside. He smelled of soap and something else, something spicy and familiar.

The man dropped the towel from his head and looked toward the entryway. His eyes adjusted to the dark quickly, finding her crumpled form on the floor.

"Who the hell are you?" a low, dangerous voice demanded.

Annemarie's heart stopped. Even through the fog of the drug, she recognized that voice. She recognized that jawline, those broad shoulders, that intoxicating scent.

She hadn't escaped at all. She had walked straight into the lion's den.

"Carlisle," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

Carlisle stepped closer, his bare feet silent on the plush rug. He stopped a few feet away from her, his expression shifting from anger to disbelief.

"Annemarie?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. He looked at her, taking in the wet dress, the wild eyes, and the angry red marks on her wrists where someone had gripped her too tightly.

Annemarie opened her mouth to explain, but the drug chose that moment to drag her under completely. Her eyes rolled back, and she slumped sideways onto the carpet, unconscious.