Page 6 of Stolen Rebel

She knew I’d drop everything and go to her.

That fucking phone call almost cost me my life. Caught unawares, jumped, stabbed three times. Too late, I learned what a setup looks like. Too late, I learned that blind love can get you killed, or near as, dammit.

I trace the jagged line from my temple to my lip with the tip of a pocketknife—not to cut myself, but to remind her of what she cost me. And what it’s about to cost her if she doesn’t drop the Erin bullshit and start playing ball.

We can do this the easy way, or the hard way, and for those who make it hard for me, well, let’s just say few have lived to tell the tale, and fewer have survived with all their limbs intact.

I tap the knife once against the arm of the chair. The sound rings sharp in the empty warehouse. She jumps like a shiver bolted down her spine, her eyes widening.

I hook two fingers under her chin and force her face up into the light, ignoring the way she flinches. “You’re going to tell me who you were working for and what they paid you to turn traitor,” I murmur, injecting ice into my words even as the “Mad Dog” in my chest strains at the leash. “You’re going to tell me why you set me up, why you ran. And if you keep up with this bullshit persona, I’ll cut the fucking truth out of you one finger at a time.”

Chapter 4

ROWAN

Remain calm. Brian’s voice is a cold echo in my head. His training drilled those words into me until they became instinct.

Don’t panic. Sure. Easy to say when you’re not strapped to a chair by your psychotic ex-boyfriend who very clearly wants to kill you. Oh but not before he’s tortured you into the bargain. I know he must hate me for running out on him without a word, but I did it to save him. I don’t understand why he thinks I set him up. I didn’t. I wouldn’t.

The warehouse he’s holding me in is freezing, the dampness of the bitter, British winter seeping through my thin t-shirt making me cold to the core. My teeth want to chatter, but Erin would cry before she shivered.

My wrists ache against the biting plastic ties, but I don’t struggle. If I struggle, I’m his Rebel. If I cower in terror, I’m Erin. And Erin survives.

It’s day two of this battle of wills between us. At least, I think it’s been two days. Feels like it could be longer. Hunger comes and goes in waves, but the ache in my shoulders never leaves.

He puts a blindfold on me when he leaves, thick fabric that smells faintly of engine grease, so I can’t tell when it’s day or night, and the hours all blur together.

He’s brought me water, given me access to the little girl’s room—fine, it’s a bucket in the corner, but he at least makes his men turn their backs to me so I can use it. That’s something, right? There’s still a shred of humanity inside Liam.

My Liam.

Or maybe it’s just a habit that I think of him that way because he blasted music all night long last night to stop me from sleeping. The bass thumped through the metal walls until my skull felt like it would split wide open.

The man I loved would never have done this. Not to me.

Other than grabbing me by the hair and dragging a knife down his own face seemingly in a bid to terrify and taunt me, he hasn’t physically hurt me. At least not yet. But I can tell from the loathing in his eyes he wants to. His patience is clearly wearing thin.

Liam Mahoney’s threadbare patience might be the only thing standing between me and an unmarked, shallow grave.

I couldn’t handle myself against one of these three goons, let alone all of them. If things turn violent, I’m fucked. Unless I get inside Liam’s head first.

He yanks off my blindfold, and I drop my gaze to his boots. Erin doesn’t challenge men like Liam Mahoney. I blink in quick succession to bring things back into focus, my exhausted mind already scrambling to work at a hundred miles an hour. Brian drilled this into me until I could do it half asleep.

Reconnaissance: There are two exits. One heavy roller door he dragged me in through and one small steel man door to the left. I count the guards. Liam is in front of me. Kai, the man who helped Liam take me from the pub, stands a few feet behind him, watching with an unreadable expression. His eyes flick briefly to Liam before settling back on me.

There’s a third man by the roller door—built like an absolute brick shithouse, a gun visible on his right hip. He doesn’t care who sees that he has a weapon. Which means he’s the kind of man who enjoys using it.

I swallow hard, fighting the rise of bile in my throat. Three men. One chair. Blocked exits. Brian never trained me for odds this bad.

Yeah, definitely fucked. “I t-t-told you yesterday. I-I don’t have any money,” I stammer, letting my voice shake just enough to sell it. Lean into the timid mouse act, Brian’s voice rings clear in my mind, but my throat aches from the effort of holding back everything I really want to say to him.

I have to say, I hadn’t anticipated my eventual captor being the former love of my life, but here we are.

The urge to swing my forehead at his, to crack his skull against mine and tell him to wind his fucking neck in is overwhelming. You want Rebel, you ungrateful bastard, I’ll give you Rebel.

But Rebel would die here.

After everything I’ve done to keep this prick alive, he still thinks I’m the villain? This is how he treats me? I didn’t expect flowers and chocolates, but a bucket filled with my own shite in the corner of a fucking tin shed?