Takeover: A Step-Brother Romance (The Legacy Book 1) by Lana Grayson
Authors: Lana Grayson
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summer heat. Once we tamed the land, we tended to the economy. Millions became billions, acres became miles, and corn spun into gold.
And still, my father spent his every waking moment inspecting the littlest details of our farms, our books, our crops, our workers, our animals— everything .
If my father poisoned himself through chemotherapy while securing a partnership with Sugarweed Corn Syrup, I wasn’t about to beg to save myself from an asshole who imprisoned me but didn’t have the common sense to tie me up.
I forced myself to stand. The drugs pumped heavier than my blood, and my balance pooled in my feet. The wooziness jeopardized my bravery, but at least I regained my dignity.
The button on my jeans remained unfastened.
My stomach heaved.
I didn’t remember what happened.
I fled from the lab, but the asthma attack turned to fog. My car crashed. That hurt, but I peeled myself from the wreckage and hid within the cornfields. I collapsed, and then...
Nothing.
Flashes though.
A strong chest cradled me—smelling of leather and rich shadow. I liked the scent, but I fought until that first prick of the needle.
It should have frightened me, but waking terrified me more.
Hands poking. Cold instruments. Blood drawn.
I hated doctors’ appointments—if only because I was always there. Breathing and X-rays and allergists and every specialist obsessed with the bits of me that never worked right.
I surveyed my arms, chest, and tummy. I hadn’t checked everywhere, but I felt generally unmolested. Still, the tension returned in my lungs. This time I earned the fear.
I didn’t know where I was or who had taken me, but I swore no one would touch me again.
Ever .
I studied my prison. The digs were far nicer than I expected from a kidnapping. In my mind, I imagined dusty cement and rusted chains, darkness and rats.
Instead, I woke in a poster bed puffed with soft mattresses and softer pillows. Muted golds blended with the aristocratic scarlet wallpaper, an older style. Whoever designed the room painstakingly refurbished the elegance without losing the gothic edge.
Dark woods and hauntingly beautiful paintings of fairy tales and villains added to the room’s antique sophistication, and my window overlooked acres of shadowed forests and mountainous peeks.
We weren’t in Cherrywood Valley.
No corn fluttered in expansive fields. No flatness stretched beyond our sight. The farm was rural, but not isolated.
Empty wilderness surrounded us.
Fear was messy. It stole what tenuous control I held over my breath. I didn’t have my medications which meant I couldn’t get upset.
I scoured the room. No phones or weapons, indications of names or locations or clues about what psychopath kept me prisoner.
The private bathroom might have dazzled me, but why did they give me such luxury? What use would I have for a separate, brass footed tub outside the stylishly tiled shower? I hesitated before the cherry vanity. The drawers layered with brand new brushes and hairdryers, make-ups and creams, lotions and perfumes.
It felt…permanent.
The carved dressers contained clothes. My size. My favorite books tucked within a case next to a cold fireplace. A towel rested on the nightstand, folded with a bottle of shampoo, conditioner, and a shower gel containing flecks of pure gold.
The door wasn’t locked.
My captors hadn’t kidnapped me.
They housed me.
What the hell was happening? This was no petty crime, no mad desperation for ransom.
I had no idea why I had been captured, but a simple, damning, terrifying truth festered in the darkness.
They didn’t want my family’s money.
They hunted me .
I’d make sure they regretted every moment of it.
My insides chilled. The pleasant room and comforts were more warning than hospitality. They dressed me in elegance and stole samples of my blood after violating me from the inside. I shivered.
I peeked into the hall. The sophistication of my room bled into the rest of the
And still, my father spent his every waking moment inspecting the littlest details of our farms, our books, our crops, our workers, our animals— everything .
If my father poisoned himself through chemotherapy while securing a partnership with Sugarweed Corn Syrup, I wasn’t about to beg to save myself from an asshole who imprisoned me but didn’t have the common sense to tie me up.
I forced myself to stand. The drugs pumped heavier than my blood, and my balance pooled in my feet. The wooziness jeopardized my bravery, but at least I regained my dignity.
The button on my jeans remained unfastened.
My stomach heaved.
I didn’t remember what happened.
I fled from the lab, but the asthma attack turned to fog. My car crashed. That hurt, but I peeled myself from the wreckage and hid within the cornfields. I collapsed, and then...
Nothing.
Flashes though.
A strong chest cradled me—smelling of leather and rich shadow. I liked the scent, but I fought until that first prick of the needle.
It should have frightened me, but waking terrified me more.
Hands poking. Cold instruments. Blood drawn.
I hated doctors’ appointments—if only because I was always there. Breathing and X-rays and allergists and every specialist obsessed with the bits of me that never worked right.
I surveyed my arms, chest, and tummy. I hadn’t checked everywhere, but I felt generally unmolested. Still, the tension returned in my lungs. This time I earned the fear.
I didn’t know where I was or who had taken me, but I swore no one would touch me again.
Ever .
I studied my prison. The digs were far nicer than I expected from a kidnapping. In my mind, I imagined dusty cement and rusted chains, darkness and rats.
Instead, I woke in a poster bed puffed with soft mattresses and softer pillows. Muted golds blended with the aristocratic scarlet wallpaper, an older style. Whoever designed the room painstakingly refurbished the elegance without losing the gothic edge.
Dark woods and hauntingly beautiful paintings of fairy tales and villains added to the room’s antique sophistication, and my window overlooked acres of shadowed forests and mountainous peeks.
We weren’t in Cherrywood Valley.
No corn fluttered in expansive fields. No flatness stretched beyond our sight. The farm was rural, but not isolated.
Empty wilderness surrounded us.
Fear was messy. It stole what tenuous control I held over my breath. I didn’t have my medications which meant I couldn’t get upset.
I scoured the room. No phones or weapons, indications of names or locations or clues about what psychopath kept me prisoner.
The private bathroom might have dazzled me, but why did they give me such luxury? What use would I have for a separate, brass footed tub outside the stylishly tiled shower? I hesitated before the cherry vanity. The drawers layered with brand new brushes and hairdryers, make-ups and creams, lotions and perfumes.
It felt…permanent.
The carved dressers contained clothes. My size. My favorite books tucked within a case next to a cold fireplace. A towel rested on the nightstand, folded with a bottle of shampoo, conditioner, and a shower gel containing flecks of pure gold.
The door wasn’t locked.
My captors hadn’t kidnapped me.
They housed me.
What the hell was happening? This was no petty crime, no mad desperation for ransom.
I had no idea why I had been captured, but a simple, damning, terrifying truth festered in the darkness.
They didn’t want my family’s money.
They hunted me .
I’d make sure they regretted every moment of it.
My insides chilled. The pleasant room and comforts were more warning than hospitality. They dressed me in elegance and stole samples of my blood after violating me from the inside. I shivered.
I peeked into the hall. The sophistication of my room bled into the rest of the
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