Page 130 of Ready For His Rule

And dammit, the strength to trust this man with his life. This man who, despite hiding a vital truth from her, still somehow had her trust. That made less sense than refusing chocolate and Dwayne, but there was even less time for therapist shopping right now. And the last time she checked, dead women didn’t need therapy.

She wanted to need therapy.

She wanted to live.

And she had to get out of this alive, if only for one damn, driving reason. She wanted it so badly, she spoke it into existence from between her locked teeth.

“I’m going to find a flogger and use it on you after this, Captain Franzen.”

She braced herself for his just-try-it grin. Maybe even the preening arch of both his brows. She hadn’t prepared for the meaningful heat turning his gaze to darker smoke—or for the touch he joined to it, a swift brush of knuckles over her cheek, accompanied by words he merely whispered but might as well have shot from the gun on his back.

“And I’ll be looking forward to it, my love.”

Nine seconds of his breath.

Nine bullets to her heart.

Nine explosions of shock. Of joy. Of elation. Of incredulity.

Of swearing she was going to flog him harder, for pulling this shit on her in this damn moment.

This all wrong, but suddenly so right, moment…

Just before the world detonated around them.

Pop, pop, pop.

Blam, blam, blam.

Many times in the past, especially since she and Luke had moved in at Observatory Circle, she heard fireworks in the summer and worried they were gunshots. She now knew the difference. She’d never have those summer skitters again, not after hearing the real thing. The shots blazed with sharp violence, echoing with sickening surety against the parking garage walls. Not after identifying the inevitable chaos latched to it. The frantic rush of racing boots. The acridity of fried lead. The spike of panic on the air. The bellows, deep and demanding, of soldiers jacked by adrenaline, dazed by explosions, and consumed by violence.

And one more sound.

One gutting her to the point of true, undeniable nausea.

The shouts of a fifteen-year-old, forced to grow up by years because terrorists were chasing him. Shooting at him.

Shooting to kill.

“No.” It burned her throat, which felt as small and meaningless and helpless as the rest of her body. “Nnnooo.” Now it was a moan, strangled by panic and horror. A sound that disgusted her. It was supposed to have been his name.

Luke.

Luke!

But she couldn’t force the syllable out. Her tongue was made of rubber. Her lungs were useless blobs. She only knew she couldn’t unclick the seatbelt and bolt out of the car faster—

Only to be thrown back in.

Locked back in.

Chained back down.

By the monster she kicked at. Clawed at. Yearned to tear apart, limb by goddamn limb, then squash the caramel mess of his body into a giant cosmic food processor. The bastard deserved worse. He tied her down. Pretended he did it to “help” her. Who stroked her cheek and called her his “love”.

His love!

He didn’t love her. Not after this. Not after planting his big, controlling hand in the middle of her sternum, glaring at her like a wild animal to be tamed, and ordering, “Goddammit, Tracy! Stay!” Especially not after lifting the dual torches of his eyes, locking that glower into Max, and yelling, “Get them the fuck out of here. Now.”

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