Hunting Her Box Set

Anissa

I wake in comfort. The softness of a delicate pillow cradles my cheek, the gentle press of silk sheets brushing my neck.

I jerk upright, opening my eyes to an immaculate room brightened by the sunshine pouring in behind thick, elegant curtains.

I don’t know this place. I’ve never seen any of the furniture before. Not the polished, dark wood dresser. Or the carved antique chair in the corner.

But more u

I remember Cole picking me up in a limo, taking me to the airport, and then being on a private jet. We were civil. He offered to help find the missing women.

No. He had information to assist in saving them.

Important information.

Then… I struggle to remember what comes next.

I’d been drinking. I’d poured myself a glass of vodka. Then Cole gave me one more.

There’s no way I would’ve consumed enough to make me pass out. I’ve never passed out.

That asshole must have slipped me a roofie.

I throw back the covers, and the rush of movement makes my wrists protest. They ache. Throb. I glance down to see red streaks marking my skin, the damage peeking out from beneath the cuffs of my blouse.

My stomach lurches at the thought of what was done to me. The possibilities batter my mind. I rush from the bed, my feet hitting plush carpet.

My shoes… I’ve got no shoes.

Thank fuck my clothes are still intact. But someone took my goddamn shoes.

Cole.

Why?

Why the hell would he drug me and bring me back to his house? Why the hell would he do any of this?

I pace as I frantically contemplate. I need to settle myself before I storm from the room to face him.

He didn’t hurt me. Not apart from the marks on my wrists.

Maybe he didn’t drug me either.

Maybe… Fuck.

The possibilities are endless, and my wild imagination isn’t helping.

I inhale deep, measuring my breath. I’m not going to hyperventilate over this. Not yet. There’s no reason to panic until I know what happened.

Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t protect myself.

I crouch, reaching for the ankle holster hiding my pepper spray. I’m not surprised to find it isn’t there. There’s only more tenderness to match my wrists.

“Cole, what the hell have you done?” The question whispers from my parched lips.

I must have been bound, hog-tied, while left fully dressed and without any indication of sexual violation.

He then made sure I was comfortable. My binds were removed. I was placed in an expensive bed. In an extravagant room.

The evidence is contradictory. Hog-tied and comforted. Drugged yet nurtured.

The pounding beneath my skull doesn’t make the puzzle any easier to figure out.

Maybe he realized he made a mistake. He could’ve been worried about my safety.

Did he want to keep an eye on me?

I can’t help trying to convince myself of the placations. But that’s exactly what they are. I’m grasping for the best-case scenario.

Worst-case?

I shudder, my chest hollowing.

Am I victim number ten?

I glance around, taking more notice of my surroundings. This isn’t a prison cell. It’s an elegantly furnished bedroom, oozing sophistication.

It isn’t a place that promotes confinement.

There’s a window, for heaven’s sake. And yes, Cole’s house is big, but it isn’t a palace with walls too high to scale down.

If I wanted, I’m sure I could open the window and escape to the lawn below. Then all I’d have to do is walk to the nearest house to ask for assistance.

Easy.

I’m certain there’s a simple explanation for all of this. I’ll be laughing over my wild imagination as soon as the dust settles.

I bridge the distance to the window and pull aside the curtain. The material grates along a metal track, causing a growl of noise to spike my apprehension. But it’s the view that ignites panic.

I see water. An open expanse of deep blue that doesn’t resemble anything close to the Willamette River.

This is the ocean. Lots and lots of ocean as far as the eye can see.

“Holy shit.” I gasp.

The view doesn’t resemble anything close to the beaches along the Oregon coast. There’s no sand. Only rock. And the shore is close to the house. This doesn’t look like any place I’ve visited before.

Everything inside me hollows—my stomach, my chest, my lungs. Confusion and hysteria battle for supremacy through a rapidly pounding heart.

I grasp the pane and pull, opening the window a crack.

Fresh air engulfs me, the warm breeze hotter than the cooler Portland weather. But the temperature shouldn’t be my focus. I have to remind myself the window opened.

It fucking opened.

I’m not a prisoner. My thoughts return to this being a simple misunderstanding… With burns on my wrists.

I start toward the door, my steps slow as I pull myself together.

I’m not going to show fear. Nothing has changed. I’ll remain cool, calm, and charismatic… Yeah, because that worked so fucking well for me last night.

I grasp the door handle, the brass twisted in an elegant style, and slowly lower the lever. I don’t make a noise as I pull the obstruction open a crack and listen for clues.

At first, there’s nothing—only the rustle of breeze in the distance. The gentle whoosh of air is comforting, portraying freedom.

I inch the door wider and peek outside, finding a dimly lit hall, the ru

To the left, there’s more hall, much, much more, with a break in the middle leading into a light-filled area.

A clatter sounds in the distance. The noise associated with a kitchen. Then there’s a clink of cutlery.

Food.

My stomach rumbles in optimism.

I pull the door wide and tiptoe from the room, creeping my way toward the opening in the hall. My wrists and ankles throb with each twinge of movement. My heart thunders, each step bringing a harder beat.

The further I trek, the brighter the light seeps in, the louder the breeze gets, the more definitive those food-prep noises become.

There’s no hint of danger, only the prickle at the back of my neck making my nerves sensitive to everything around me.

I pause before the opening of the hall, pressed tight against the wall while I remain in the shadows. For long heartbeats, I stay frozen, breathing deep, preparing myself for the worst before I glance around the corner and find Cole in an immaculate kitchen.

He’s standing before a cooktop in the middle of an island counter, a stainless canopy rangehood above his head as he grips a frying pan with one hand and a spatula in another.

The sight is almost comical. Entirely bizarre.

He’s different—almost unrecognizable in a short-sleeved collared shirt, his dark hair damp and casually mussed.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him without a suit. He seems almost naked in comparison, his arms holding more muscle than I would’ve imagined. If I’d ever imagined them. Which I haven’t.

“You hungry?” He doesn’t take his attention from the pan, and my pulse rate increases with the thought of someone else being here with us.