The floor was cold stone—damp, old, probably underground. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, the coarse bite of rope digging into her skin. The gag in her mouth tasted of metal and filth, but her eyes… her eyes burned with calculation.

Rhea Calder didn’t panic.

She assessed. She listened. The faint dripping of water. The hum of a generator. The click of boots pacing on concrete. One captor. Heavy, impatient steps. Male. Probably armed. Sloppy.

He thought he had her.

She smiled beneath the gag.

Rhea shifted her shoulder just enough to trigger the hidden blade sewn into the lining of her jacket sleeve—a weapon missed because they hadn’t thought to check a fashion model for gear. That was their first mistake.

Their second mistake? Letting her wake up.

With a flex and twist, the blade sprang into her palm. She turned it just so, cutting through the ropes like ribbon. The gag followed. Her arms were free. Her muscles, despite the bruises, sang with readiness.

She stood.

The door creaked open.

“You’re awake,” the man grunted. “Good. We’re going to have a—”

Rhea moved like liquid lightning. One swift jab to the throat, a sweep of his legs, and the man crumpled. She crouched over him, retrieving his gun, knife, and keycard. His eyes widened with terror as she knelt beside him.

“I suggest you stay down,” she whispered, brushing her long, dark braid back over her shoulder. “You’ve already had your fun. Now it’s my turn.”

She didn’t run.

She stalked.

Because Rhea Calder wasn’t just another hostage.

She was the storm they should’ve never summoned.