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I open my mouth to deny the accusation, but I can’t.
Damn right I want to lock her up and throw away the key.
Does she have no concept of her appeal?
The sheer power of her innocence and beauty?
Even as I say these things inside of my head, there’s a part of me that is ashamed of myself. For losing my objectivity. For being the exact thing she is trying to escape. I should have done better. I was supposed to be her hero. Her rescuer, like I was all those years ago.
“Magnolia, stop. Don’t go back there.” I reach for her, attempting to pull her up against my chest, to recapture the trust I squandered. “The men you live with are dangerous.”
“The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t, right?” she sobs back at me.
I make another grab for her waist, but she turns unexpectedly and knees me square in the balls, throwing herself out of the tent and running full speed back toward the mansion. I’ve just sent an angel running back into that murderous den of thieves. What the hell have I done?
One thing is for sure.
Under no circumstances am I leaving her here.
Chapter Three
Magnolia
I can barely see, due to the tears clouding my vision.
Nonetheless, my hands wrap around the rope made of sheets and I start to climb, using my feet on the side of the house for leverage.
Everyone wants to trap me. I have nowhere to run. No one to turn to.
There was something so calming and reassuring, almost familiar, about Mateo, but he was nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A very handsome wolf, yes, but one that could get my guardian into a lot of trouble. What have I done? Mateo is obviously law enforcement. How could I fall for his story that he is a bird watcher? Was I born yesterday?
Or maybe I’ve just lived such a sheltered life these last six years that I’m now a total mark. Gullible, easy prey.
I want nothing more than to leave this mansion behind and keep running, but I must warn Pace and Karson. They might be overprotective and secretive and controlling, but…Pace does care for me in his own, twisted way. And Karson? He saved me from a difficult life of being passed around the foster care system. My guardian has provided me with every comfort, even though I rarely see him, since he is always working. I need to alert them that they are under surveillance. As angry as I am about the coming out ball tonight, the thought of Karson and Pace in prison is nearly unbearable. What does that say about me?
What does that say about my true feelings for Pace?
And for Karson.
A whisper of wayward lust sneaks in at the thought of my guardian, his huge, commanding, threatening presence. His silvering hair and thick forearms.
The deep rasp of his voice.
How he looks at me on the rare occasions we’re in the same room.
Like he knows he shouldn’t be looking.
Don’t think about him.
Thinking about my guardian makes me feel funny.
In a different way than Pace. Pace makes me feel almost…angry with need. Conflicted.
And now with Mateo…the safe kind of arousal. Languid and comforting and joyful. The thing he did to me…using his mouth on me down there? I’ve never experienced the kind of wild release, the buildup of pressure followed by the most immense detonation of pleasure. I loved it. I loved every single second of his tongue and its wicked movements.
I loved everything about Mateo until I found out he lied.
Karson just makes me feel…dutiful. Eager to obey. Eager to make him proud, by any means necessary. He’s old enough to be my father, so I really need to stop thinking about that.
Finally, I make it to the top of the tied-together sheets and pull myself over the lip of the window, managing to get my left leg over the sill. There should be a stool right there—
Yes. I find it with my foot and balance the wobbly piece of furniture, using it to climb back fully inside of my bedroom—
The stool slips and goes skidding across the room.
Everything moves in slow motion and I’m suddenly pinwheeling in the air, falling into my bedroom from the high window sill—and hitting my head on the side of my hope chest on the way down.
Pain explodes in my right temple.
Blackness claims me.
Consciousness trickles in like dusty moonbeams.
There is a woman’s voice, which I’m not expecting. I don’t live with any women.
Only men. My world is made up of men, men, men.
I crack an eyelid and nausea blasts into my stomach, outrageous pain radiating from the right side of my head, making my gasp at the sheer immensity of it. My vision is red. Is that blood? Oh God, I don’t feel good. I feel weak, strength fleeing my body, like I could be dying.
