My body moves before my brain catches up.
The ropes bite into my wrists as I try to stand, but my feet won’t hold me.
“Don’t touch her,” I scream from where I fell back to the cold floor. “Don’t you ever touch her again.”
Rory turns toward me, guilt twisting his face.
“Mia, I didn’t mean to hit her.”
“That was a mistake.”
The voice comes from above us.
Low, calm, and very pissed off.
Rory freezes.
So do I.
For one impossible second, the whole basement goes silent.
Even Livy stops breathing.
Then I look toward the stairs.
Maverick stands at the top, still as stone.
One hand resting on the railing.
A gun held loosely in the other.
He isn’t rushing.
He isn’t shouting.
He isn’t breathing hard.
His eyes are on Livy’s face.
On the red mark blooming across her cheek.
Then they move to me.
To the ropes around my wrists.
To my pale fingers curled uselessly in my lap.
To the concrete floor.
To Rory.
“Maverick,” Rory whispers.
Maverick starts down the stairs.
One step, then another.
His boots make almost no sound, which is saying something considering the size of the man wearing them.
