Chapter 3: The Price of Survival

The hallway was just as empty as the comments promised—just the buzz of the Coke machine and the faint laughter from the kitchen below. My sneakers squeaked on the faded linoleum as I raced past doors, heart in my throat.

I staggered up the stairs to the third floor. The innermost door was closed tight. My face was blotchy and hot from crying, skirt hem stained with dust, hair sticking to my sweaty cheek. My hand hovered at the knob, shaking so bad I thought I’d drop.

[Madeline, go in now! The sheriff’s son booked this room—VIP only!]

[The house mother’s already dragging that two-hundred-pound customer upstairs. If she catches you, it’s game over!]

[You’re the real Whitmore daughter—don’t let them stick you with a homeless guy. This is your shot!]

I forced my hand to move, bit my lip, and pushed open the door.

A big hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me inside. My back hit the door. Another hand clamped my throat.

"Who are you? Who sent you?"

I couldn’t breathe. Panic, pure and sharp, made tears pour down my face. I choked, "Please… let go…"

He seemed to realize, stiffening, then let go. I coughed, gulped air, dared to look up. The guy in the blue shirt was tall—shoulders broad, jaw sharp, eyes intense. He had the look of a guy who could fix your car and break your heart in the same afternoon.

Even flushed and trembling, he radiated control. I forced out, "I… I was drugged, and you… you were too… We can help each other…"

I kissed his cheek, barely a whisper of lips, my hands shaking so bad I thought he’d laugh. "Do you… do you get it?"

[Girl, you gotta work the room, not just the cheek!]

[Kisses go on the lips—what is this, a PG-13 flick?]

[No, it’s cute if Maddie’s innocent, but Grant, why are you blushing?]

I risked a glance up. He was blushing for real—ears and all. For a guy who looked like he could bench-press a truck, it was almost adorable.