Page 138 of Rescuing You

She’d take her own life first.

“Ah, not yet, my pet. But soon.” He pushed her, and she stumbled and would have fallen if not for a guard behind her. He gripped her arm and dragged her away from the van and toward a car.

They were in a tiny parking garage, barely large enough for the eight cars crammed in there. She aimed for the backseat, but the trunk popped open.

“In,” the guard said.

And if she’d thought of arguing, the words were stolen as he swept her feet out from under her and dumped her, head-first, into the tiny, cramped space.

A second later, Jasmine was deposited beside her. The lid slammed, leaving them in darkness.

Bringing to mind the escape from Baghdad, the crate.

And Michael, who’d held her close and kept her from falling.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry for him now. Not when Waleed and his thugs were so close.

Jasmine’s arms slid around her. “We must pray, sister. God sees us.” Despite the weakness in her voice, Jasmine was right.

Hope seemed lost, but God was a God of hope, wasn’t He?

Leila prayed aloud, her voice low enough that the men wouldn’t hear her mumbled words. She sprinkled in some of the Scriptures she’d learned in the years she’d been in Germany, like the promise that God was their strong tower. That the righteous could run to Him and be safe.

“Make us safe, Lord,” Jasmine said.

The car moved, jostling them, Leila’s hip banging on the hard floor when it hit bumps. But she kept praying.

How much time had passed since she’d sat beside Michael, comparing him to his brother?

She doubted even an hour.

It felt like a lifetime. A lifetime since she’d held his hand. A lifetime since their long, passionate kiss right before he’d put her in the raft. A lifetime since she’d demanded he quit questioning Jasmine, when she’d erected a wall between them.

She should have been more understanding. She shouldn’t have made demands of the man who’d risked so much for her. Who’d given everything for her. Given his very life for her.

Rather than savoring their time together, she’d made it awkward and strained.

Staring down a lifetime as Waleed’s wife—his slave—she’d give anything to have those hours back with the man she loved.

They weren’t on the road five minutes before the car parked again.

The doors opened and slammed. A few muffled words.

And then the trunk opened.

One of the men lifted her to the ground, and another lifted Jasmine out and set her on her feet.

Leila took in the surroundings. They’d parked in a narrow alley of crumbling concrete. A giant pile of trash leaned against the building nearest, carrying the stench of decaying food.

There was a second car, a small hatchback, which explained how all the men had gotten here despite the small vehicles.

A guard asked Jasmine, “You can walk?” He sounded concerned, almost human.

“Yes,” Jasmine said. “Thank you.”

Thank you?

But Jasmine was polite. Smarter than Leila, who wanted to scream at them all. During all those years alone with only Baba, Uncle Hasan, Qasim, and Waleed, in a compound full of guards, Jasmine must have learned that fighting back was futile.