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My legs continue pumping as sweat rolls from my hairline into my eyes.
“Stop!”
Every muscle in my body locks up, not because of what was said, but because of who said it. It can’t be.
The bag over my head is loosened, then pulled off. After a couple blinks, Reece’s angry face comes into view, his mask flipped up over his eyebrows. He’s turned around in the driver’s seat, on his knees, leaning over the center console to hover above me.
“Shit, Lex. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
All ten fingers intertwined, I punch him square in the nose, double-handed, double-irritated.
“Fuck,” he groans as he sits back on his heels, a hand over his face as he uses the other to remove his mask.
“Who are you working for?” I ask while repositioning myself so my feet are aimed at him instead. They couldn’t break tempered glass but they’ll shatter a jaw.
“What do you mean? You know who I work for.”
“Cyrus paid you to kidnap me?” I hadn’t even considered he’d be behind this.
I should’ve.
This is what happens when you forget, when you become complacent, comfortable.
This is what happens when you let your guard down.
“No. Jesus Christ.” His voice comes out nasally from his nose being pinched. “Cyrus didn’t fucking hire me to kidnap you. I meant that’s who I usually work for.”
“Kordin then? Did Kordin hire you to do it?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You actually think I’d ever doanythingfor that motherfucker?”
The window closest to him starts to fog from his heavy breathing.
“Why’d you kidnap me?”
Reece drops his hand to stare at me. “Because you wouldn’t have said yes.”
“Said yes to what?”
“To spending the weekend with me.”
The intensity in his gaze causes a panic in my chest, and throat, and limbs—worse than when I thought I was going to be tortured and eventually murdered.
Back to Plan A.
I pivot and kick the glass again.
Reece launches himself between the seats, landing with one knee on my gut and the other on the floor. With only one hand, he holds both my legs together, preventing any movement.
“Get off of me,” I grit.
Lowering himself into my face, he grits right back, “Stop fucking fighting.”
He knows my response—he’s heard it, seen it, and felt it—so instead I try a different tactic by holding up my hands being held together with a zip tie. “I will if you cut these off.”
“I’ll cut them off when I’m sure you won’t run.”
“They’re hurting me,” I lie with a slight whine.
