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I sit, giving myself a minute I didn't realise how badly I needed. It's irritating, feeling like this and not really knowing why. I've seen girls scream, seen them fight and thrash as we ruin their lives—but what just happened in there? Me holding a gun to a woman choosing death over escape? Never happened. I thought that was what unsettled me, but deep down, I know it's not the only thing.

I shake my head. You're overthinking this. Doing the one thing Adrian drilled into you not to do. "Don't let them in." He'd said it over and over until the words sounded like nails on a chalkboard. He'd give me a smack right on the head if he was here to witness me obsessing.

I think maybe it's because she's beautiful—because she is, with skin that looks soft and delicate in the light, eyes bigger than Ashwood fucking river and a body that would make most men fall to their knees.

But then, every girl is beautiful in some way. That's why he chooses them.

My eyes catch the steering wheel, my hands gripping the leather, knuckles white.

"Go home, Jax, you're losing it," I mutter to myself as I turn the key.

She's just another girl, Jax. Another life you can't do anything about. I let the lie simmer in my mind as the engine roars to life beneath my feet.

Chapter Eight

Amora

I was so close to breaking free—and then he showed up with his leather jacket and dark curls, and ruined everything. I know with every part of my being that if he'd have come ten minutes later, I'd have been free. I'd have been running so far through those woods, and I wouldn't be trapped. But once again I'm in a fucking van with two girls who look at me like they hate me, and a child clinging to my waist.

I should have been faster. I hesitated, and that was the problem. The feel of his fingers on my breasts had caused me to waste the vital seconds I needed to escape. I won't make that mistake again.

Fuck, I scream in my head.

The van sways, jolting me to my side, my hand braced firmly on the floor, holding myself in place. The other girls haven't said anything, not since the warehouse. Annabelle keeps herself tucked at my side, her sobs almost silent, but I can feel her body shuddering. I wish so badly I could take her pain, but I'm drowning in my own.

Closing my eyes, I wait for the darkness. I pray for a moment of sleep to just come and take me away from this living nightmare. But instead, my mind taunts me with the image of him. The guy with the gun. It surprised me that he's the person who came to take us, because I expected another set of eyes that devour our skin and hands. Who claim us with every brush of their fingertips—but I didn't see that, not from him. Not in his eyes. All I saw was flashes of pain and guilt. You can't fake that.

He was attractive, too. It made no sense, either, because why would a guy who looked like that need to take women from the streets? He had dark hair and these piercing green eyes, ones which almost forced you to look away. Maybe that's why they use him; because he's not a filthy, walking cliché like Derek, but because he's attractive. Because he doesn't look like a man who's going to follow you into a dark alleyway.

I can't help but wonder how he ended up here. How did any of the men? Did they want this life? Were they being paid? I guess I'll never know, but still. I can't help but wonder what life was like for them before this.

I shouldn't care; I don't know why I do. Maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment or just a nosey cow—or probably both.

Dragging myself up to my knees, I study the guy in the front seat. He is far different from both the men who had a hand in my captivity. He's younger than me, not by much I don't think, but still, his face is still fresh. Glasses frame his eyes, slipping down the bridge of his nose as he bobs his head to the rhythm of music from the speakers.

He looks nervous. Is he? Or is he scared? He doesn't stop tapping his thumb against the wheel, eyes flicking occasionally to the rearview and finding mine. He knows I'm looking, he's just waiting to see who's going to make the first move.

"I can see you looking." I jump at his voice, and I sink out of view, heart racing. I didn't expect him to speak; he scared me half to death. I peek back up, his eyes finding me again through the rearview mirror. He's not nervous. He's scared, too.

"What's your name?" he calls back, his tone soft. Softer than I've heard since being here, and it sparks something inside me. Maybe, if I can convince him I'm a person, that I'm a real living being, he'll let me go.

"Amora." I look up, locking my eyes with his. He smiles—it's small, but for some reason, I feel a flicker of comfort. It scares me more than the chains Derek wrapped around my ankles. The van jolts as we drive over bumps in the road, my eyes darting to the windows as we head down a country lane.

"That's a pretty name."

"Thanks, it was my grandmother's." I try to smile back, but it's forced. God, I hope he can't tell the difference. I lean a little higher on my knees to check the passenger seat for any weapons, and when I look back, he's looking at me again.

"If you're looking for a gun, Amora, there isn't one."

He's intuitive, I'll give him that.

"I wasn't…" I let my voice trail off before returning to meet his gaze. My heart beating fast in my chest, I spot the clock on his dashboard—it's almost noon.

"You were. It's fine to admit it." He lets out a croaky laugh. "I don't like shit like that; I'm not one for violence."

So you draw the line at violence, but kidnapping women is fine? I bite back the words. Don't piss him off, Amora.

"What do you like then?" I whisper. I remember watching a Grey's Anatomy episode once, where one of the surgeons was being held at gunpoint, and she reeled off a list of things about her. Apparently, the more they know, the more they see you. Let's see if it's true.