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I swallow hard, looking away, my eyes burning with impending tears of emotions I don’t fully understand. Him being around me is both the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m losing focus. I’m losing control. I’m losing it.
“Revenge is better served cold, and personal, Prescott. Hands. Marks. Fingerprints. Mess. Sharp objects. Pounding hearts. Guns are for those you show mercy to. And what do we lack, my dear prodigy?”
His shoves his face into mine, his devilish eyebrows knotted together.
“Mercy,” I answer. He brushes his thumb on my cheek, diving down to my mouth, dragging the soft coat of dead skin from my lips and pulling it leisurely. It hurts, and I love it.
“That, we do. They didn’t show us any mercy, and we’re not bigger people.”
Good God, this man is ruthless, yet so soft when he handles me. I can’t even begin to read him.
I clear my throat. “Go get us something to eat.” I bark out the order to disguise the storm that’s swirling inside me, but I’m sure he can see through me. My cheeks are cherry red, my pulse is so fast you can see it pounding in my neck and I constantly lick my lips. He nods curtly and leaves without even asking me what I want, locking me inside.
But he doesn’t need to ask, he knows what I want.
I want him.
I wake up to faint red flickers of the clock on the nightstand. It’s 3:30 a.m.
Time.
It’s my only fortune nowadays. Other people, people who took and used and abused me, are running out of it.
Stretching my arms and spreading my legs over the cool sheets, I notice I’m alone. My throat bobs and I blink away the sleep.
Where is he?
Looking around, I take in the empty room through glassy eyes. I remember falling asleep minutes after he’d left to get us food, but he never woke me up.
Christ. I should have never trusted this man.
Scrambling up to my feet, I throw the bathroom door wide. Empty. I’m consumed by the darkened room, all by myself, and instead of launching for my backpack, making sure he hadn’t stolen anything, I fight the tears that are quietly flowing down my cheeks. The thought that he left me makes me want to throw myself off a building.
He wouldn’t leave without getting his passport and 50k first—would he?
Maybe one of Godfrey’s guys got to him. Shit, maybe I’m next.
After checking my backpack and making sure that everything I brought along is still with me, I pace the room back and forth. We’re only using one burner phone, and it’s on me, so I can’t call him. I check the window overlooking the street. Nothing. Slipping into a pair of flip flops I’m not even sure belong to me, I get out of the room with my backpack in tow, cursing him for taking the key because I can’t lock the door behind me.
I’m sweating buckets as I get close to the lobby, fearing I’ll come face to face with my English enemies. With every step, my prayers become louder. At first they’re just in my head. Then, they come out as whispered chants. Launching into the empty reception area, scanning, searching, hyperventilating, I pass by the small pool the place offers and a blue shadow dances in my periphery. I twist my head in surprise and stop with a screech.
Nate.
He’s swimming to and fro, slowly, gracefully. Taking his time. I stare at him, allow my pulse to slow down and wipe the cold sweat from my brow before I snap out of my stupor and walk to the pool, not making a sound. The motel is practically deserted, the only noises that can be heard include the surprised swooshes of a pool that’s probably never been used before, and the whimpering of a faraway coyote.
I’m still wearing my red number and a small leather jacket when I walk over to him. He has his back to me but when a twig snaps under my flip-flops, he turns around sharply. His expression relaxes from tight back to peaceful when our eyes lock.
“What in the actual hell, Nate?” I disguise the panic that swirled within me moments ago by burying my hands in my jacket’s pockets, even though it’s hot outside. I always dress up in cute clothes. It reminds me of my previous life as a Blackhawk princess. But I always wear something on top to hide my body. That, however, is all thanks to the second part of my life, the one after the Archers bulldozed into it. “I thought you said you were bringing food!” It’s supposed to be a question, but it comes out as an accusation.
“And I did. You were snoring. What was I supposed to do?” his eyes narrow into dangerous slits. I can see it from here. Even in the blackness of the night. He’s only wearing his boxers, and looks delicious bare-chested.
