Takeover: A Step-Brother Romance (The Legacy Series Book 1) (6 page)

I zipped my bag, listening over the clicking pumps working hard to maintain a vacuum for the projects stashed in the corner. The lab existed in a state of pure noise. Chemistry wasn’t all mixing compounds and dissolving solutions. I spent more time waiting for the machines to finish their tests than doing fun experiments. Erlenmeyer flasks were a lot more exciting when I wasn’t washing them.

I listened.

Nothing else echoed.

I hadn’t studied in the lab in a few weeks, but usually no one darted into the offices upstairs in the middle of the night.

All the more reason to head home. It was way past the time I was comfortable being out alone, especially when the last warnings Dad gave was about my security as I had grown into such a
beautiful woman
.

I wasn’t about to think of those implications. Another bump shattered the stillness.

This time it didn’t come from upstairs.

This time, the slice of a boot crashed on the stairs just outside my lab.

The few techs and chemists who used the lab didn’t wear steel tipped boots. They also didn’t lurk in the hallways. And they certainly didn’t take the steps agonizingly slow, clopping a heavy-footed echo in the bare basement halls as though hiding.

My chest tightened—the worst moment for that to happen. I edged away from the door with a wheeze. The light switch waited under my hand, but drenching the lab in darkness would be just as suspicious as me bursting out of the room in a dead sprint.

Instead, I searched my purse for the phone. Mike and Josiah always carried guns. I regretted never taking up their offer to learn to shoot. A small canister of mace jingled on my key ring. I had no idea if it even worked anymore, but I tossed the cap away. If it was empty, maybe my aching lungs wouldn’t swallow enough mace to hurt me?

Or maybe it’d cause a full-on attack.

Only one way to find out.

Glassware stacked around me, but my only real weapon was a lab stool. The acids and strong bases locked up tight in the storage room. The windows didn’t open completely, and we converted our second cubby into a larger eye-wash station and emergency shower. No hiding in there.

The footsteps snapped against the cement hall.

My pulse fluttered.

I was trapped.

Thud
.

Quiet.

Thud
.

I counted my breaths. Far too few to be effective. I heaved the nearest stool over my head.

The door kicked open. I screamed and slammed the stool against a man dressed completely in black leather. He grabbed the chair before it crashed against his ski-mask. He jerked me off-balance.

I spun from his grasp, but my laptop clattered to the ground. The book bag followed.

He lunged. My soil ecology books swung into his jaw.

I thought I was quick, but my attacker was bigger, stronger, and far more aggressive. His hands laced over my waist and lifted me from the ground. I screamed, throwing fists and kicks against anything soft and squishy.

Except nothing about the mugger was soft.

“
Let me go
!”

Something connected. Hard. My toes felt like they broke, but the attacker slumped. I kicked again, missing the fleshy bits I had already pummeled. I nailed his knee with a swift, deliberate aim.

He dropped me, but I picked myself up faster than the asshole clawing who needed the wall to stand on his injured leg.

The mace didn’t mist so much as it jetted, but the shot of liquid capsicum
dosed him with aggravation.

Run.

The pepper spray showered the lab, and the spiced air tore razor-bladed pain in my throat and lungs. I coughed and abandoned my bags.

He didn’t follow. I sprinted up the basement steps, collapsing at the top in a wheeze that scared me more than the attack.

I groped for my inhaler in my pocket.

“Fu—”

I didn’t have the strength to swear. The inhaler tucked in my freaking purse which was probably long gone with the mugger. Damn. I didn’t carry that much money on me. The idiot attacker would make off with forty dollars, a student ID, and my emergency medication. Hell, the biology textbooks that clattered against his face were the most expensive thing in the lab.

I burst outside and bolted to my car. The clicking locks echoed. A symphony in my fear. My fingers trembled as I pushed the ignition, but the rumble reassured me. Like my father’s casual whistle as he kicked my butt in tennis or my brothers’ fist-fights at the base of the stairs.

Comforting. Normal.

I managed to breathe. Kinda. I’d just drive home. Find my medication. Calm down, call the police.

Recover my damn lab journal and laptop before the thief made off with something more important, more valuable, and absolutely crucial to the survival of my family.

Christ, before the mugger ruined something that had the opportunity to revolutionize agriculture and significantly raise yields in dry, arid climates. Not the most riveting way to save the world, but it’d be enough to put food in a lot of people’s bellies and conserve a hell of a lot more water.

My chest ached. I had to get home.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

I peeled out of the parking lot and sped down the deserted main street.

Twin headlights blinded me from my rearview mirror.

A car?

No. I swore again, wasting more air on useless fear.

Motorcycles.

Goddamn it.

I lived in Cherrywood Valley long enough to realize the Atwoods weren’t the only powerful force dominating the markets. I avoided the bikers as Dad instructed.

But these guys weren’t the local Anathema thugs.

The bikes roared beside me, and I reflexively jammed the breaks as one cut in front of the car. The rider dressed in solid black, and a shaded helmet covered his face. He swung toward me, and I drifted away, slowing enough to drop a gear. I made it too easy for them to chase me.

My vision darkened as the cough squeezed my chest and head.

Not good.

I accelerated, but the bikes kept up—speeding, edging close, and risking their own lives to drift ever closer to my car.

What did they want? To kill me? To steal the car?

Hurting me would do nothing. They couldn’t even kidnap me, not when I was the only one able to release the ransom money.

Oh, God.

Ransom
.

It made sense. All the instability, all of Darius’s damn speeches. It was a chance for a criminal to make a move against me—especially if they thought Darius would seize control of the money and company.

I was the easier target.

God, that pissed me off.

Dad didn’t raise me to be a victim. I hid weakness beneath the Atwood name, and I utilized my gifts to forge a stronger image. A better image. Sarah Atwood—gifted student, charming philanthropist...

Lost and struggling daughter trying her damnedest to do what she could to keep her mother from slicing her wrists and the company from dissolving to our family’s greatest enemy.

I jerked the wheel toward the asshole biker treading too close to my side. I scared him off, but not before the clatter echoed inside the car.

The bang terrified me.

They punctured my tires!

I lurched the wheel again. Wasn’t a great idea. The busted tire shredded over the rim.

The car fought and thudded. I waited until the last possible moment before shoving my foot flat against the break and riding through the dangerous shudder that skidded the remaining good tires.

I twisted the wheel and accelerated. My turn from the main drag surprised them. The bikers screeched to a halt and spun to chase, but I had a quarter of a mile on them.

Even with my lungs cramping and shoulders tightening, I found my way through the city in the darkness. The bikers hung back. They weren’t Anathema, and that gave me some hope. I sped past the opera house and industrial district, heading south instead of taking the bridge across the river. The town limits blurred by. A couple aching breaths delivered me a mile outside the city.

The pain in my lungs didn’t ease until the first of our thigh-high corn sprouted in the distance. The night hid most of our property, but I didn’t care. I was close to home.

In my breathless fog, I realized my mistake.

Damn it. I led the bikers right to my house.

The crushing sob didn’t emerge from my chest. I swallowed another harsh breath. I couldn’t turn around. Stopping so suddenly in the rattling car would allow my stalkers to dive from the bikes and get too close.

The car rumbled. Something charred and filled the interior with acrid fumes.

I couldn’t make it to the next town over on three wheels. Home seemed to be the best option, and I prayed I’d get there with enough of a head start to find Dad’s old hunting rifle. Maybe Mom knew how to shoot.

Maybe Darius would be there?

Fuck.

I slammed my hand on the wheel.

Jesus Christ. Crawling to
Darius Bennett
for help? How much oxygen had I lost?

A flash preceded the second blowout. The back tire popped in a horrible burst of sparks and an explosive thud that stole complete control of the car. I spun out, fish-tailed, and bumbled over the road. The speedometer read a number somewhere between idiotic and absolute disaster.

The car skidded off the shoulder. The wooden fence didn’t stop me. In the darkness—in my blinding, aching, oxygen-deprived fear—I slammed on the accelerator instead. My wheels tore into the acres of corn, and the stalks thudded and cracked and beat against my windshield.

Screaming did nothing. The car careened into the dirt, sinking deep into our fields and rutting through the crops. My headlight shattered on the fence and what remained dulled with mud and shredded leaves.

The frayed tires bounced against the mud before imbedding in the irrigation equipment. The car juked, tossing hard to the right. I shielded my face as it flipped, crashing and shattering every window.

The engine still hummed.

But the car stopped.

I fell against broken glass. The airbag hadn’t deployed, my only salvation. The dust would have killed me…unless the men chasing me did it first.

My vision blurred. The coughing did nothing to clear my lungs. Twice I attempted to turn the car off, missing the ignition and pressing furiously against the radio. Lady Gaga roared against the nightmare. I didn’t have the energy or clarity to shut it off.

I was close to home.

I thought.

Maybe?

Get out of the car
.

Deep breath. Didn’t help.

I twisted against the steering wheel. The movement strained an already spasming chest. I had to get out. I had...the door...

I pulled myself up, measuring each breath with a slight motion. Couldn’t overexert myself. Not with the pollen.

Dust.

Debris.

I crashed Josiah’s car.

My brother would have made sure I was okay.

Dad would have been so pissed. At least he was dead. Didn’t have to worry about getting in trouble. I was in enough for a lifetime.

My shocked laugh pulled me from the stupor. I shivered, but my legs untangled from the seat. I climbed up and forced my weight against the passenger door.

The bikes rumbled from the road.

They
still
chased?

What did they expect to find? A wreck like that should have turned me to corn-meal mush. I grunted and shoved the door open, heaving myself up and using my ribs to prevent the door from closing. My lungs hardly worked anyway. Why should they get protected?

I clattered to the ground and sputtered in the dirt. My fingers grasped the soil of my family’s land. It gave me strength. Something my brothers never understood and Darius Bennett would sooner salt than experience.

I took a step.

One step.

Then another.

And a third.

I stumbled into the corn, away from the car blaring techno pop in the shadows of the field.

Another step.

Where was I?

West field. No. North field? I left town traveling south.

Something cold slithered against my ankle. My cry didn’t squeak out. Not when a web crossed over my lips.

Corn silk.

Pretend its corn silk.

Breathe.

Run.

Too much to do.

Someone called my name. Maybe Mom saw the crash? She’d come running if she had managed to pull herself out of bed.

But the voice was deep—a melting wax of shadow and heat.

Not her.

I dodged the thrashing slap of corn as I ran. Destructive footsteps slammed behind me.

Did I cry? I hoped the wetness on my cheeks wasn’t blood. I didn’t stop sprinting through the endless, darkened fields of cold, dew-kissed corn.

My name again. Closer. I tripped over the stalks and crashed to the ground.

Get up
.

My fists dug into the dirt again as the shadow burst after me. I tossed the handful, but the man in the helmet sidestepped the throw. I kicked. He grabbed my leg.

The panic attack won out. My puffing chest hyperventilated me before the asthma stole my vision. The biker dove to my side, picking me up. I swung another fist, but I struck only black riding leathers, protecting him from the road and my weak hits. He held me close. The dark helmet muffled his call.

“She’s over here!”

That delicious voice again. Familiar. I struggled to turn over, to crawl away. He called my name and shook me once as my head lolled in his arms. He ripped the helmet off.

Golden eyes swirled in my mind.

I swore my kidnapper looked like Nicholas Bennett.