“Fuck that!” This city was his home. It was all he knew. He couldn’t lose all his friends and his identity, too.
Conall tried to stand, but the man grasped his forearm. “It’s just a few years. And in the meantime we’re working alongside the SIS to search for your brother. Airports and all avenues of travel are being scouted as we speak. We will find him, and justice will be served for your parents.”
He felt the weight of it all forcing its way down on him, and for the first time since he was a wee bairn his eyes stung. He couldn’t hold back the sobs as they came, and he didn’t have the strength to push the man away when he took Conall’s neck and pulled it to his shoulder, roughly rubbing his back.
Every ounce of control he prided himself on slipped away, and he realized it was all a ruse—a childish facade. His family’s wealth had always backed him up, and knowing his parents would always be there for him had given him the safety net to live his life like a selfish prick. Now he had none of that, and it hurt. Who was he, really? He dappled on the dark side, equating those minor dangers with power, but he saw now it’d all been shite. Out there in the world was real danger. Fucked up people with no conscience.
How badly had the people he loved suffered at the hands of brutal madmen? Could he have fought and saved any of his family if he’d been there? Had his father fought? Somehow Conall couldn’t imagine that, which made him feel a moment of irrational anger toward his father, followed by guilt.
When Conall pulled himself together he said in a choked voice, “Tell me everything.”
Their Edinburgh estate had been methodically broken into. The overseer of the lands was taken captive and forced to disarm the alarms before being killed. Conall’s parents were not supposed to be home. They should have left for an event in Dublin; however, technical issues with their private jet caused a delay.
The thieves were taken off guard to find the owners home. Reports showed that a struggle had taken place. An antique vase in the foyer was broken, and Conall’s mother was found with flesh under her nails. His father had abrasions on his hands. Both his parents and the nanny were murdered, and the perpetrators left with the one thing they’d come for: his brother, Graham.
The authorities called it a kidnapping-for-ransom gone bad. They’d only expected the nanny and Graham to be home. And all the while Conall had been partying, just like every weekend. He couldn’t have been arsed to check-in with a fucking nanny.
Conall shook his head back and forth as an angry vengeance and self-loathing soaked into his blood. His future as he’d known it had been seized and choked. He knew he’d never be the same, because all his aspirations changed in that moment. He would never be the respectable business man his father had been. His one and only thought was to get his brother back, and then do whatever he had to do to find the people who’d done this to his family and destroy them.
“We’ll find these bastards, young McCray,” the officer told him.
And if you don’t, Conall thought to himself, I will.
I had a secret fantasy. Something I’d never told anybody because it was too shameful. For years I’d fantasized about being taken against my will—Stockholm Syndrome kind of stuff—rape fantasies. I imagined big, sexy men busting down my door, overcome with the desire to have me. In those visions I somehow knew they meant me no bodily harm. It was lust. They just wanted to momentarily own me. Those imaginings had been so hot. Being overpowered. Being brought reluctantly to orgasm.
But in real life there was nothing sexy about rape.
I felt the soft foundation underneath me rocking and heard the faint whir of an engine when I woke. My hands were tied behind my back, and my ankles were bound. A dull, distinct pain was present between my legs. My first instinct was to scream, but I stamped down the urge, forcing myself to sit up and take in my surroundings.
I was in a small, clean room on a twin bed. Through the rectangular window on the wall I could see the dim morning sky, or at least I assumed it was morning.
And I saw water. Lots of water.
My stomach turned and I heaved, leaning my head over the bed. Nothing came out, but my gut continued to convulse.
When I heard footsteps and murmured voices, I quickly laid down on my side, curling into a ball and letting my hair fall over my face. The door opened, and although I was panicking inside, my body went into some crazy, shocked self-preservation mode of calmness.
“She’s still passed out,” I heard Fernando say in Spanish. My stomach clenched.
A string of cuss words came from the mouth of a deeper-voiced man.
“Idiot! Why would you bring her to my boat?” the man yelled in Spanish.
“It wasn’t my plan. I was going to fuck her and dump her somewhere before we left this morning, but she said her parents were lawyers!”