Consciousness came to her slowly, dipping in and out with her head hung low. Golden tresses fell forward, a mess of a gleaming, glossy waterfall in the lowlight. Her eyes were heavy, lids feeling as though tiny anchors were attached to her long, dark lashes. Try as she might to open them, the weight was as unrelenting as the throbbing in hear head. It was the pounding ache in her temples that had her struggling against potent drug that was beginning to wear away. Her thoughts were a hazy jumble as fragments of memories raced through her mind. She recalled being out on the town. Flashing lights swayed in a nightclub, illuminating a throng of bodies dancing to deep rhythms. Blurry, yet familiar faces flitted through her memory, friends who had come to celebrate her last night as a single woman. There were drinks, far too many for her to count. And yet, she felt the remnants of agitation, her weak fight or flight imploring her that something was amiss. With a soft whimper, she opened her eyes. It was no easy feat, simple as it was. Her pupils reacted aggressively to the dim light, sending a lancing pain through her. She blinked again and again, allowing them to adjust. When they did, her world was unclear. Fuzzy shapes in the shadows made her heart race, thumping hard against her rib cage while she strained to see.<br/><br/>Her hands jerked as she attempted to move them, and immediately she realized that her wrists were bound. The restraints were tight, leaving her little room to wrench and twist against them. Though futile, she tested her binds again and again, tugging harder and jerking the slack on the cuffs. She took a breath and exhaled, trying to calm her frayed nerves and the panic that threatened to paralyze her. It was her worst nightmare all over again, only this time the details were not so clear.<br/><div style="text-align: center">​</div><br/><div style="text-align: center"><b>***</b>​</div><br/>“Champagne, please.” She called out over the blaring music, sliding the flute across the bar top to be exchanged for another glass. Her friends were at her back, urging her to hurry. Clara looked over her shoulder, flashing them a smile as she raised her middle finger. When she turned back to the bartender, he was already onto the next order. Her drink was already before her, fizzing and bubbly in the glass. With a gracious nod, she took her glass and returned to the masses where her girlfriends were waiting for her to join them.<br/><br/>It had been so long since she had gone out. Her presence in public was reserved, limited to special occasions and professional gatherings. After the incident two years ago, she was careful. Always looking over her shoulder, always taking precautions—some more unnecessary than others, old habits that therapy had yet to break. Though she was not completely rid of all her paranoia and obsessive compulsions brought on by the trauma of her past, she was finally in a good place. She was able to enjoy herself despite the large crowd and seemingly shifty characters, once the faces of her captors no matter how dissimilar the resemblance. It was a triumph. Clara Allerton was no longer a victim, and while that alone was reason enough to party the night away it was an afterthought.<br/><br/>She was the bride-to-be in a short, clingy white dress, hugging the lines and curves of her body. To the beat of the undulating music, her hips swayed. The seductive movements attracted the attention of eager onlookers and bold hopefuls, itching to caress and grind against her. The girls that surrounded her created a difficult barrier to breach, acting as a line of defense against wandering hands and uninvited partners. Vigilant though they were, their defenses had already been thwarted. Every sip of champagne sent her drifting further into a dream-like state. Her head began to swim as she moved, and soon the club was spinning. She felt overwhelming fatigue, unable to articulate just how tired she was when she began to teeter on her feet.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><b>***</b>​</div><br/>Clara’s vibrant aqua eyes panned around the nightclub, through the sheer smoke that clouded the space. The deep, red velvet curtains and dark, but ornate décor was not familiar to her. It was not the place she last remembered, which meant she had been moved . . .<i>Taken</i>. Frantically, she tried to remember her last conscious moments, coming up with nothing but unknown figures that hovered about her.<br/><br/>“Hello?” She called out. Shouting made her head pulse, but she did so again and again despite the ache it promised after. At the top of her lungs she cried out for help, expecting a response of some kind. Her captors had been sloppy last time. They were easily agitated and flustered. Their crime was a hasty one, committed when the opportunity presented itself. There was no plan beyond her apprehension, and she feared that now, after they had gotten what they wanted from her family, they were back again to use her as a bargaining chip.<br/><br/><br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="200" data-username="@Crazy Shady" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/200/">@Crazy Shady</a>