From Ashes: The Unwanted Wife's Return

Ellie Gilbert POV:

The words hung in the air, so preposterous, so utterly insane, that for a moment I thought I had misheard him. "What?" I breathed, my mind refusing to process the command.

"They're watching the front entrance," Jace said, his voice a low, urgent hiss. He didn't look at me, his eyes were fixed on Fallon, who was whimpering on the floor. "They'll see the car leave. They'll think it's Fallon making a run for it. It will buy me time to get her out through the service exit and arrange the transfer."

My blood ran cold. "They'll follow me, Jace! Those men... they'll kill me!"

"They won't kill you," he said dismissively, as if swatting away a fly. "They'll just hold you. I'll pay them off. It will be fine."

Fallon let out a soft, pained moan from the floor, a perfectly timed piece of theater. Jace's face hardened, his decision made.

The sound of one of the goons cocking his gun echoed in the silent room. "Time's ticking, Sharpe."

"Go, Ellie. Now," Jace commanded, his voice like the crack of a whip. He grabbed a coat from the closet-Fallon's coat-and threw it at me. "Put this on. And her scarf. Cover your hair."

He was dressing me up as her. A moving target in another woman's clothes.

"Jace, please," I begged, my body trembling uncontrollably.

He strode over to me, his hands gripping my shoulders, his face inches from mine. "You will do this," he snarled, his eyes burning with a terrifying intensity. "You will do this for her."

He shoved me towards the door. "Go!"

My body moved on autopilot. Numbly, I wrapped Fallon's scarf around my head and pulled on her coat, the scent of her perfume a suffocating cloud. I grabbed the keys and ran, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I didn't even make it out of the underground garage. The moment the Bentley's engine roared to life, a black SUV screeched to a halt in front of me, blocking my exit. Two men jumped out, guns raised.

They dragged me from the car, their hands rough and bruising.

"Well, looky here," one of them sneered, yanking the scarf from my head. "It ain't the Valentine bitch." He radioed his boss. "We got the wife instead. Sharpe's playing games."

I could hear the tinny reply through the radio. The words were a death sentence. "He wants to play? Fine. Take her. He's got an hour to double the price. And for every minute he's late, she pays."

They threw me into the back of the SUV. I caught a glimpse of the penthouse window high above. A light was on. I imagined Jace in there, holding a terrified Fallon, whispering that everything would be okay, that he would protect her. And I was the price of that protection.

The men who took me were not professionals. They were thugs, cruel and volatile. They drove me to a derelict warehouse by the docks, the air thick with the smell of salt and decay. They tied me to a chair.

The leader, a man with a jagged scar across his cheek, got Jace on the phone. "Your hour's up, Sharpe. The price just doubled." He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Your wife is a pretty thing. Be a shame if something happened to her."

He held the phone out so I could hear Jace's reply. "Pay them," Jace's voice said, tight with frustration. "Just give me a little more time to arrange the transfer."

Time. He needed more time. While I sat there, terrified, he was negotiating.

The hours crawled by. My captors grew impatient. They drank, their moods growing fouler with each empty bottle. Their eyes started to linger on me, a predatory gleam entering their expressions.

"Maybe we should give her boyfriend a little... incentive," one of them slurred, walking towards me.

"No," I whispered, shrinking back in the chair. "Please, no." I looked at the leader, my eyes pleading. "He'll pay you! Just wait!"

But the leader just shrugged, taking another long swallow from his flask. The man's hands were on me, ripping at the collar of Fallon's coat.

I screamed, a desperate, hopeless cry. "Jace! Jace, help me!"

My screams were answered only by the jeering laughter of my captors. One of them held up his phone, showing me a live news feed. It was a local reporter, standing outside the Sharpe Tower.

"We're getting unconfirmed reports," the reporter said, "that Jace Sharpe has successfully rescued his companion, Fallon Valentine, from a hostage situation. He's seen here comforting a distraught Ms. Valentine, a true hero in a terrifying ordeal."

The screen showed Jace, his arm wrapped tightly around Fallon as he led her to a waiting ambulance. He was kissing her forehead, his face a mask of profound relief and love. He hadn't just been arranging the transfer. He had been staging a press conference. He had been crafting his hero narrative while I was being served up to these animals.

Hope, the last flickering ember in my soul, was extinguished. I went numb. I stopped fighting. I closed my eyes and let the darkness claim me, my mind detaching from the horrors my body was about to endure.