The Payment

By Allyson Young

Eamon, Jonah, and Remy are brothers-in-arms, governed only by their missions. Compensation relates to the nature of the work—gold, precious stones, cash, or real estate. They share everything in a dangerous and rewarding life.
Tasked with snatching a money launderer, they must include his personal assistant, Mallory, or leave her to the men searching for them. They take Mallory as their payment this time around.
Mallory Strickland is a loner, the product of her past, someone who won’t be at another’s mercy again. When she finds herself permanently kidnapped by three men who have chosen her to be their wife, she rebels.
It doesn’t matter if these men have supposedly saved her and profess good intentions—and are gorgeous, virile individuals, she refuses to be enslaved. Can she withstand their determined, sensual assault?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Publishing
• Release date: Nov 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9780369502452

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Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2020 Allyson Young

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0245-2

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Audrey Bobak

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

For Joyce MacGregor and Karen Hawk, beta readers extraordinaire.

THE PAYMENT

Allyson Young

Copyright © 2020

Chapter One

Mallory

The day had started out so well, too. Unlike now. Here. Wherever here was. Maybe today … wasn’t today.

"Grab her wrists!"

My head throbbed as those words rang in my head, and my belly rolled, negating any movement, even a tiny one. I resigned myself to lying still on the unfamiliar bed in the dim room, waiting until I could move without being hampered by the malady. Fear nibbled at the edges of my ragged composure, but I hung on, knowing if I let it take control, I’d react instead of taking considered action.

Gradually, I retraced my movements of the day, assuming it was, indeed, still Tuesday. I’d risen early, hustled off to yoga, showered and dressed, then shared a pot of coffee and an omelet with my friend, Isabel, before heading into work.

I concentrated, and bits and pieces of information filtered in, past the headache. A phone call. A delivery in the lobby for my signature. Directed by the new security guard around to the alley entrance… My entire length tensed as my brain reluctantly offered up the rest, and I fought back the incapacitating wooziness. I remembered most everything leading up to being drugged—I thought. Maybe it was best I had no recollection of what transpired during my incapacitation.

Rolling to my side, I then swung my legs to the floor, pulling my torso upright. The room spun crazily, and I screwed my eyes shut until my equilibrium returned. Squinting, I noted I was still wearing the same things I’d donned after yoga, a gray pencil skirt and a cream, silk shirt, both sadly wrinkled. The matching suit jacket was probably on the back of my chair at my desk. Along with my purse. The good news was that I was dressed.

My hand went to my throat, and involuntary tears pricked behind my eyes. The tiny gold cross I never took off was gone, the delicate chain probably broken in my struggles. For a moment, I wanted to lie right back down and give over to my fate, the sense of loss so powerful it sapped my will.

But I wasn’t a quitter, and I forced my grief away. My feet were bare, and I felt around with my toes, knocking up against what I identified as my heels. Not that I cared to step into them and try my luck walking. What the hell was in that syringe?

Okay then, I’d been snatched. Kidnapped. Something strategized, planned. The security guard was in on it, and there were at least two other men. Memory flickered in fits and starts, bits of color and shading, but I remembered.

The panel van was innocuous, its last wash in the distant past, faint lettering on the side proclaiming Hal’s Florist. My brow furrowed even now, recalling my puzzlement that a florist’s van would be delivering office supplies when the side door flew open with a ratcheting roar.

The security guard pushed into my space and wrapped a muscular arm around my waist, carrying me out of the doorway and up to the van. A huge guy reached out to grasp my shoulders and sheer, instinctive self-defense threw my body into action as I spied the ties and hood.

A small, nasty part of me smirked and preened a little at the recollection of cracking the big guy a good one in the face, feeling his nose crunch beneath my fist.

The guard called out for assistance from the driver but kept his voice down, nothing to attract attention, yet urgency lacing his order. Grab her wrists!

Ah. That voice, those words still resonated.

The driver had leaned back to help, and I was pretty sure I’d broken at least two of his fingers, gripping the hand closest to me and reefing hard on the digits. He’d grunted, unable to push between the bucket seats as I drew up my knees and delivered a solid kick at the guard’s crotch.

My effort was foiled by his quick move, as it deflected my strike to his thigh, that thick, solid muscle absorbing the blow destined for his testicles. The handsome bastard might have been denied children otherwise.

"Fuck’s sake, Jonah, forget the restraints. Immobilize her, and I’ll put her under."

The bigger guy, green eyes startling in his dark face, had smothered any of my further efforts at self-defense by dint of dropping his hefty self on me, deterring further movement, including my ability to breathe. His deep, smooth voice rumbled, Easy, honey. Don’t do yourself an injury.

Blood was smeared over his face, but those green eyes sparkled with something close to mirth—maybe admiration. What?

"Get off me." I didn’t want to be put under.

A sting in my thigh…

My fingers sought out a tiny red mark, just above the hem of my skirt. It didn’t rate on the tenderness scale. So, I had clearly succumbed to a drug, expertly administered. At least I’d been spared the binding and darkness of the sack over my head.

Recalling the details helped keep the fear of the unknown at bay, and I resolved to garner as much information as possible. The way I’d done growing up, moving from home to home, never knowing the people or what they were capable of, but having that same dark suspicion of what they wanted from me.

Those men could have done me considerable harm—a blow to the head, to the face, something to quickly subdue me and avoid notice from the street—yet they hadn’t. So they wanted me … intact. I wasn’t sure how to interpret that other than thinking they didn’t want to damage the goods.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed to my feet, feeling the concrete’s rough texture beneath my soles. When I was confident I could stay upright, I tottered toward the wall with the tiny window set high, nearly at the ceiling. Once there, I touched the smooth surface, some kind of plaster, and followed it along to the bottom of the stairs.

I listened hard before cautiously ascending, one careful step at a time. With my ear pressed up against the solid wooden panel, I heard nothing and tried the knob. It remained rigid beneath my fingers, not that I expected it to turn and for me to walk boldly out of here. Wherever here was.

All the same, it took something out of me, and I sank down on the slightly wider top stair and contemplated my prison. And it was a prison. I had no idea why I was the sole occupant or what I’d done to deserve being held in this manner, but I appeared stuck. In an empty house.

I made my way back down, having spied a light switch, which turned on the single bulb hanging in the room. No longer reliant on the scant light from the high window, I commenced to exploring the rest of the area I was confined in. It turned out there was a pocket door tucked near a corner, and I slid it aside to reveal a small bathroom.

There was a sink, toilet, with a roll of tissue sitting on the tank, and a shower stall—sans curtain. A tiny bar of soap, travel toothbrush and paste, and a stack of folded paper towels were on offer—nothing I could see to escape or utilize against my kidnappers, if they were even coming back. I couldn’t say what frightened me more, being abandoned to perish in the crappy room, or facing whoever wanted me here.

I hurriedly made use of the facilities and cleaned up, noticing there was no mirror, either. I could only assume I looked a mess. I felt like one. Despite my efforts, panic began to build again, ratcheting up my heart rate and blood pressure.

To combat the feeling, I hustled back to the other room and took a turn around, examining every square inch visually and with touch. Given its apparent age, the place was really clean, smelling vaguely of bleach—no mouse droppings or spider webs in sight. Aside from the double bed, dressed in a fitted sheet, there was nothing else. Maybe a James Bond type could have dismantled the mattress looking for a box spring and picked the lock with it, but I fell short of the 007 status. Anyway, I figured it was made of pure foam. And the frame was one solid piece of metal.

The sheet resisted my attempts to rip it initially, and then I desisted. What would I do with pieces of cloth? Garrote someone? Set a trap on the stairs? Bind wounds? Hang myself?

My attention returned to the bed frame, calling up the dimensions of a full-sized bed. I stared at the window, mentally measuring the distance to the floor. Maybe… I shoved to my feet in the chilly room when I heard them. A door shut, and male voices sounded above, followed by footsteps—three sets of them, possibly four. I cursed quietly, having missed an opportunity.

I breathed deeply and snatched up the sheet for additional coverage. I sat, striving to look as unprepossessing as possible, my brain working hard, my belly tight with resolve, and my heart rate nearly under control. Time to size up the enemy. Prepared for anything.

Famous last words.

The door at the top of the stairs flew open, a strategy I might have employed had I imprisoned someone in the cellar, the better not to allow them the opportunity to rush the one opening it. Silence reigned for a few moments, my blood drumming in my temples to fill it, and then someone made his way down.

I marked the boots and the well-worn jeans through slitted lids, appraising the slowly revealed form as the tight, black t-shirt came into view next, a big hand resting carelessly on the railing when the man swung around the base of the stairs. The imposter of a security guard. He looked even better than he did in his pressed uniform, and I fervently wished my kick had been better aimed—anything to knock that smug, assessing look off his pretty-boy face.

And yes, he was handsome. Sue me for the thought, considering my circumstances. I’d appreciated his blond good looks and tall, broad-shouldered, muscular frame encased in a tailored uniform, the blue shirt setting off his eyes before he participated in my goddamn kidnapping. I didn’t want a man, but I sometimes looked.

I kept my seat and position, watching as a faint look of speculation etched his features. He came to a stop well out of kicking range. You’re awake.

Brawn, no brains. I knew I should be terrified, and I was, but I held it together, hiding behind sarcasm. Observant.

A corner of his mouth ticked up. I thought you’d be out for at least another couple of hours.

Experienced with drugging women, then.

A shadow crossed his face, and he lost the smirk. I gave you a bit more than I’d planned. You weren’t going easily, and we couldn’t risk being spotted.

Sorry to screw up my own kidnapping. I glared at him. I could have died of an overdose.

Unlikely. And I was monitoring you. I gave you a few minutes to get organized.

I stilled. Monitoring. That could only mean cameras. He’d watched me explore, then taken his sweet time arriving. That could be significant. A thought struck me, and I sneered at him. Get your kicks from watching women in the bathroom?

There are no cameras in there, Mallory.

They knew my name. So it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. I had no wealthy relatives, no one to ransom me. I had nothing anyone might want. Except… I tamped that thought down. If this were some kind of a sex trafficking thing, I’d figure out a way to avoid that. Cold determination steadied my voice. Why am I here?

All in good time. He threw a glance over his shoulder as new footsteps sounded on the stairs.

I focused there and saw the driver, a slightly smaller physical version of the security guard, only with brooding dark looks, making his way down, carrying a tray.

The guy smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds, dispatching all that brooding. It was startingly and curiously disarming. Thought you’d be hungry, he said in a pleasant baritone.

I ignored his appeal and thought quickly. I could refuse and make a scene, hold out for information, but I needed sustenance if I was going to find a way out of here.

Is it drugged? I gestured at the cup and plate, the latter neatly covered in plastic wrap.

What? At my query, Sunny boy’s frown turned him back into broody boy. I made it for you. No more drugs. That was just to get you here before you injured yourself and drew attention—like Remy said.

His right hand sported two fingers taped together, evidence I had done him some damage, yet he didn’t reference them or show any animosity. Instead, he was concerned for me? It occurred again that despite the drug hangover, I didn’t bear a mark except for the needle prick. I’d clearly fallen down the rabbit hole.

I pushed a little. I’d say luring me to an alley citing an office delivery, dragging me into a van, trying to tie me up and blindfold me, then shoving a needle in me add up to something pretty close to harm.

He winced and then smiled again. You’re a pistol. We didn’t expect you to be so feisty.

My temper was heating up, simmering beneath the surface, and I struggled to control it. Were they acting like usual kidnappers? Would I even know? Certainly acting nothing like anything I’d read or seen on TV, including their appearance—no greasy, leering specimens in sight.

Is this some kind of joke? I tried to modulate my voice, but I pretty much yelled, and it echoed in the space, bouncing off the hard surfaces.

Blond guy—Remy—took the tray from his smaller version. Eat, and we’ll talk.

I had a brief fantasy of beating him about the head and shoulders with that tray. It looked relatively sturdy and capable of doing some damage. He tipped his head slightly, his blue eyes narrowing. Sit on your hands.

Excuse me?

You telegraph, sweetheart. You intend violence.

Shit. I usually had a great poker face. No.

I’d hate to have to crush you again. A deep voice added to the conversation.

I started. How the hell had that big man—Jonah?—made it down the stairs without me seeing or hearing him? I’d been intent on the other two, but still… He kind of loomed, filling up the room, those green eyes glinting on either side of a white bandage festooning his nose.

He gave me a smile, teeth flashing, and touched that appendage. Didn’t break it, honey, but you left me quite the reminder.

The thought of him crushing me brought a shiver. I’d rather you kept your large self to yourself.

Winking, he said, Sure hope you’ll change your mind.

What? That should have been a threat but wasn’t. He was freaking flirting with me—rabbit hole for sure. A shard of ice took up residence in my belly when it occurred I’d seen all their faces. From my limited knowledge of kidnapping, it didn’t bode well that I not only knew two names, but I could also identify them. Were they going to kill me or make it so I never went home again?

Remy had taken advantage of our little exchange to set the tray on the end of the mattress. He backed away to lean against the wall, joined by mercurial moods guy. They seemed relaxed yet capable of exploding into immediate action, and I didn’t relax an iota.

Jonah said, Have your sandwich. We know what you like. And there’s the sparkling water you prefer.

My breath hitched. They knew what I liked? And how wasn’t that suggestive? There was far more here… "Who are you? What’s