Taken After Hours

The blue light of my computer monitor burned against my retinas, casting pale squares across the towers of overdue editorial proofs on my desk. My eyes stung with an ache that ran straight into my skull. It had been seven days since the disaster of Weston’s engagement party, but the ghost of Cassian Vane refused to leave me alone. His face, his voice, and the brutal finality of his words in that dark sedan had played on an endless loop in my mind for an entire week.

I had missed two full days of work after that night, curled beneath my duvet in tears, and now the price of my emotional collapse sat stacked in front of me in red-inked galleys. As someone who had only recently transitioned from an unpaid intern to a salaried editorial assistant, falling behind was not an option.

My phone vibrated violently against the dark mahogany surface, rattling the ceramic coffee mug beside it.

I leaned back in my swivel chair, rubbing my aching temples with both hands before looking down at the screen. Weston’s name flashed in bold letters. He had been calling every twenty minutes for the past three hours, ever since my best friend Harper had broken her promise and tipped him off about my whereabouts.

I dragged my thumb across the screen and brought the phone to my ear. "Hey."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Weston snapped, his voice thick with frustration.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, staring up at the acoustic ceiling tiles. "Well, hello to you too."

"Don't get smart with me, Genevieve."

"Is it not Eve anymore?" I let out a tired sigh.

"Why are you still at the office?" He ignored my attempt to soften the tension.

"I have a mountain of print edits to finish before morning. I'm behind schedule, Weston."

"It's pouring rain outside, and it is past ten," his voice rose, carrying that stubborn, protective edge that always made my chest tighten with guilt. "Pack your laptop and finish the rest on your kitchen counter."

"I'll just pass out the second I sit on my sofa. Don't worry about me, I'm almost through the third batch."

"Don't piss me off, Genevieve. It is late, the streets around your building are deserted, and it is not safe. Stay inside the lobby. I'm grabbing my keys and driving over to pick you up right now."

I sat up straight in my chair, panic surging through the exhaustion. "No! Do not do that."

"I am already heading toward the door," he insisted.

"Weston, listen to me," I rushed out, keeping my voice firm. "It is torrential outside. You just finished a twelve-hour shift at the clinic, and driving across the city twice in this weather is ridiculous. I am not letting you do that."

He paused, his heavy breathing coming through the speaker. "Then how the hell do you plan to get home?"

"I am booking an Uber right now. The app says there are cars four minutes away."

"In this downpour? You'll be waiting on the curb for an hour."

"The driver is already on the map, Weston. If anything goes wrong, I will call you immediately."

A long, strained silence stretched over the line. Finally, he exhaled, the sound crackling against the microphone. "Promise me on your life you'll walk out of that lobby the minute your ride arrives."

"I promise."

"Text me the second you walk through your front door."

"I will. Goodnight, Wes."

I hung up, setting the phone facedown on the desk. The guilt hit instantly, sour and heavy in my stomach. I hated lying to him, especially after the way I had vanished from his party the week before, but the thought of him sliding across rain-slicked bridges just to chauffeur me made my skin crawl.

Instead of gathering my things, I pulled the next manuscript folder toward me and kept working.

By the time the last red margin note was scribbled, the digital clock in the corner of my monitor read 11:20 p.m. My fingers were stiff and my lower back throbbed with a dull ache. I tapped out a quick message to Weston: *Just crawled into bed. Safe and sound. Goodnight.*

I shoved my notebook and pens into my canvas tote bag, shut down the workstation, and headed for the elevators. The office floors were dead, wrapped in shadow except for the green exit signs above the doors. Down in the lobby, the night guard gave me a sympathetic nod as I walked past the marble desk toward the revolving glass doors.

Outside, the rain fell in thick, unrelenting sheets, drumming against the concrete with a deafening roar.

I pulled out my phone to check on the rideshare I had queued up while waiting for the elevator. A red error banner flashed across the top of the screen. *Driver has canceled the trip.*

I tapped the screen repeatedly, attempting to rebook, but the interface lagged before returning a grim notification: *High demand. Next estimated pickup: 110 minutes.*

A sick feeling knotted in my stomach. Two hours.

I glanced down at what I was wearing. A thin white cotton blouse, loose denim jeans, and low-heeled leather boots. No coat. No umbrella. I had left the apartment that morning when the autumn sky was pale and clear, completely ignoring the weather forecast.

Turning back to the lobby to wait was the rational choice, but the thought of sitting on a cold leather bench for two hours under the security guard's watchful eyes felt unbearable. My apartment was across the district. It was a route I had traveled dozens of times by bus and tube, though I had never walked it on foot. In my sleep-deprived haze, the distance seemed manageable.

I ducked my head and pushed through the glass door into the storm.

The freezing downpour hit me like a bucket of ice water. Within ten steps, the cotton fabric of my blouse was plastered to my skin, transparent and shivering cold. My jeans grew heavy, soaking up the icy water from the puddles splashing over my ankles. I jogged across the tarmac toward the main avenue, keeping close to the building facades, but the narrow ledges offered zero protection from the wind.

The city had emptied out. The storefronts were dark, metal shutters pulled low over shop windows. Water gushed along the gutters in dirty gray torrents, swallowing the curbs.

A silver sedan slowed down near the curb, its passenger window rolling down an inch. The driver leaned across the console, shouting something unintelligible over the roar of the rain. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, hugging my wet tote bag to my chest, and quickened my pace until the vehicle finally accelerated away with a splash of dirty water.

Fear, sharp and icy, began to seep through the numbness of my limbs.

By the time I reached the corner of a shuttered café, my teeth were clattering so hard my jaw ached. I tucked myself beneath the rusted metal awning, shivering so hard my knees shook. I pulled out my phone to check the map, but the screen was covered in fat raindrops. When I tried to swipe, the moisture made the touch sensors fail completely. I wiped the glass against my wet denim, only to smear more water across the display.

The lock screen illuminated for a fraction of a second: 12:05 a.m.

My apartment was still at least three miles away. I had barely covered a third of the distance.

Panic crawled up my throat. There were no night buses running along this corridor due to roadworks, and the street was a desolate tunnel of wet tarmac and flickering amber streetlamps. Standing still under the leaking awning only made the cold bite deeper into my bones. If I stopped moving, hypothermia would set in before I ever found shelter.

I stepped back out into the rain, breaking into a brisk, uneven trot.

The pavement was slick with oily runoff. I had only made it fifty yards down the sidewalk when twin beams of bright white light washed over the wet asphalt around my feet, casting my long, trembling shadow onto the brick wall beside me.

I looked over my shoulder.

A sleek, black vehicle was crawling along the curb behind me. It had no front taxi plates. The engine produced a deep, muffled growl, pacing my hurried steps with terrifying precision.

My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I picked up my pace, breaking into a ragged run. The headlights surged forward, keeping exact distance, the wet tires hissing aggressively against the asphalt. My boots slipped on the slick pavement, nearly sending me sprawling across the curb. Every horror story I had ever read flashed through my mind at once.

I reached the mouth of a dark alleyway, preparing to cut through to the next lit boulevard where there might be people, but before my boots could clear the corner, a hand shot out from behind.

An iron grip clamped around my upper arm.

The sheer force of the yank tore my feet from the ground, spinning me backward. A piercing scream ripped from my throat into the storm.

Survival instinct took over. I kicked frantically, thrashing my limbs, driving my free elbow back into the solid wall of muscle behind me. My nails clawed through wet fabric, trying to gouge eyes, skin, anything. I fought with every scrap of strength left in my body, sobbing as the rain blinded my eyes.

The man didn't flinch.

He moved with effortless, crushing efficiency. The downpour suddenly vanished from above my face, blocked by the wide expanse of a heavy black umbrella held in his left hand. With his right arm, he scooped me off my feet, lifting my soaking frame against his chest as if I weighed nothing at all.

Before I could draw breath to scream again, he hauled me toward the idling vehicle, yanked open the passenger door, and shoved me down onto the leather seat.

The heavy door slammed shut with a concussive thud, sealing out the noise of the storm.

I scrambled against the passenger door, clawing at the interior release handle, but the locks clicked into place with a mechanical snap. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I saw the dark silhouette stride around the front hood, moving with lethal, predatory speed.

The driver's door swung open and slammed shut.

I pressed myself flat against the glass, trembling violently, my soaked clothes pooling water onto the leather upholstery. I was trapped. Kidnapped off the street in the dead of night by someone whose physical power completely outmatched mine.

"Please," I choked out, my voice cracking into a ragged whisper. "Take my bag, take everything, just let me go—"

I forced my tear-stung eyes to turn toward the driver's seat.

The dashboard lights cast a faint blue illumination over a sharp, aristocratic jawline, high cheekbones carved from stone, and dark eyes blazing with raw fury.

My breath locked in my windpipe. The words died on my tongue.

I stared at him in paralyzed shock. The exhaustion, the freezing rain, the terror—it had broken my mind. I was hallucinating. Cassian Vane was not here. He couldn't be here. He had vanished into the rain a week ago, leaving me on the street outside my building. This was a nightmare conjured by a fever.

Cassian turned his head, his gaze boring into mine with enough heat to incinerate the air between us.

"Do you have a fucking death wish?" he thundered.

The deep, gravelly baritone cut through the cabin, dripping with that unmistakable, lethal Russian-British cadence.

The shock shattered whatever fragile grip I had on consciousness. The edges of my vision collapsed into thick black static, the cabin tilted on its axis, and the world went dark.