Chapter Twenty-Nine

Olivia knew she was running out of time. If she was to save herself and her baby, then she better think of a plan. And quickly.

Spencer pressed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Stay and be a good girl, Olivia. I’ll be back with a friend.” He shut the door, and the ominous sound of a key in the lock made her jump. He was in search of a hired criminal. The door was locked, and there were no windows to scream out of for help.

She set to work. The bindings were coarse and irritated the tender skin of her wrists. Ignoring the pain, she ran her fingers along the wooden crate, hoping to fray the rope on the coarse wood. Desperation fueled her fear, and she cringed when the rope snagged on a loose nail. Frantic, she began to rub her bindings against the nail. Soon, her shoulders ached and her wrists were bleeding. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain but continued with her efforts.

She was working feverishly when footsteps sounded on the floorboards outside the door. The scrape of the key in the lock sounded next, then the door swung open and Spencer loomed in the doorway.

“It won’t be long now, Olivia,” he said. His fair hair gleamed from the lantern light he held high in his hand, and his eyes shone a feral blue. He turned and left her alone to pace just outside the room. She could hear him mutter beneath his breath that everything was her fault—that if she hadn’t tricked his cousin into marriage and into his bed, none of this would have been necessary.

She didn’t bother to plead with him. It wouldn’t have mattered. He was desperate, and a desperate man was dangerous. He was waiting for his hired criminal to come help him carry her to the riverbank and dump her into the dark, murky depths of the water.

She thought of Tristan, of everything she’d left behind. She wondered what he’d think when her body was found.

No, she couldn’t give up hope. She must fight for her baby’s life.

With renewed effort, she feverishly worked her bindings against the nail. Sweat beaded on her brow and between her breasts. Several times she slipped, gashing her hands, but she persisted. Her fingers were numb with cold and lack of circulation, and her shoulders screamed with the effort. Her hands were slippery with fresh blood, but her efforts were finally rewarded when the rope began to fray.

“Jeffries?” A strange voice reached her from the bowels of the warehouse, and she knew her time was running out. Her stomach churned in dread.

Spencer’s hired criminal had arrived to kill her.