“Pray it’s not your last.” Words so low that Sloane would not be able to hear them.
Those words had first been said to him so long ago. Back when he’d been fourteen years old, and a twisted, psychotic bastard had kidnapped Preston from his home. Had taken him deep into the woods. Buried him. Right before the creep had closed the coffin lid over his face, he’d spoken those words to Preston.
Take a deep breath. Pray it’s not your last.
More dirt rained down on Preston and Sloane.
He broke through another board.
More fucking dirt. Too much.
Pouring down, down… In his face. His mouth…
He missed the taste of peppermint.
Chapter Two
Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.
That refrain had pounded through Sloane Armstrong’s head as she sprawled across Preston Byron’s still body. While they were trapped in the coffin. An actual, hellish coffin.
He’d been tossed inside. She’d woken up just as she was being carried to the big, freaking hole in the ground. She’d clawed at the man who held her. Big, strong, wearing all black. Even with a black ski mask covering his face. He’d blended with the growing night around him, but…
The lights from the van had lit the scene. Had shown her the grave that had been dug. The wooden coffin. The mound of earth near the hole in the ground.
She’d ripped part of his shirt. Managed to rake her nails across his stomach right before he’d dropped her in the coffin that waited inside that giant hole.
She’d landed on top of Preston. He hadn’t even grunted. And he’d been so still. Sloane had no idea what had been in the syringe. Back at Preston’s place, the jerk in the ski mask had plunged a needle into Preston’s neck. Preston had crumpled, and he’d been out cold and the bastard had put them in the ground?—
“Follow my orders exactly or I will shoot you here and now.”
His words had been low. Rasping. No accent.
She’d stared up at him. Big. Menacing. “Don’t do this,” a plea.
He’d laughed. Then ordered, “Get on top of him. Your chest to his. Face down, sweetheart. Face down.”
Why? Because he hadn’t wanted to look at her as he sealed her in? But the gun was on her, and she’d had to follow his orders. It was follow his orders or get a bullet to the brain. Before she’d been tossed into that grave, Sloane had seen the gun on his hip. A 9 mm Glock. Yes, she knew her weapons. She’d actually been trying to grab the Glock when she tore his shirt.
He had a weapon. She had no choice.
Slowly, Sloane had turned her body. She’d eased her legs between Preston’s. Put her body directly over his. Chest to chest.
She’d wondered if the jerk with the gun would shoot her before he buried them. Was that the real plan? But…he hadn’t.
“Take a deep breath, sweetheart,” he’d told her, voice mocking. “Pray it won’t be your last.”
Then…
The lid of the coffin. It had covered her and Preston. The dirt had come down. Thump. Thump. Thump. She’d shuddered with fear and horror every single time she heard the terrible thump of dirt hitting the coffin lid above her. She’d grabbed for the bracelet on her right wrist. A bracelet that had been a gift from her very best friend in the world, Lily Gallo.
Well, technically Lily Gallo-Bennett now.
Lily had gifted her with the bracelet one month before, on Sloane’s birthday. A 14k gold bangle bracelet, one adorned with leaves and beautiful, delicate roses.
Sloane had always loved roses. Their smell. Their beauty.
The way the petals looked like blood when they were tossed onto the ground…
