Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(30)

I let my eyes close. “Stop.”

“You don’t want this.” His tone is conversational.

“I hate you.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I want you to die. I want to hurt you. I want you to let me go.”

He laughs softly, a puff of breath against my forehead. “In that order?”

My teeth clench together. “Take your pick.”

“You know what I think, Abby? I can call you that, right? It’s cute. Like you.” His hand curves to the side, feathering light touches along the cashmere of my sweater. He grips my hip as if we’re dancing. And we are dancing. It’s a sick song he plays.

“I think you want to fix me. That’s what you were doing at the prison. That’s what you’re doing now. But the thing is, Abby, it’s not going to work. You can’t fix people. Not with bullshit writing assignments, not with anything.”

“They’re not bullshit,” I spit out, angry suddenly because, yeah, he can take my freedom, but he can’t take the things that I know. Or the things that Esther taught me. “Some of the guys in there, it meant something to them to tell their stories, and for their stories to be heard. Telling our stories is what heals us and makes us whole,” I add, parroting Esther’s words.

His beautiful lips twist in a sardonic smile. “That’s really what you think?”

“Yeah,” I say.

His voice flattens out. “Some people can never be fixed,” he says to me. “Some wounds can never be healed. Not ever.”





Chapter Eighteen




Grayson


She’s slumped against the opposite door. Her hair fell down from its bun. Dirt and blood are smudged on her face. She took off her fancy sweater to use as a pillow when we started moving, and her nice blouse is torn and soaked with sweat. But she looks beautiful anyway. And tragic. It’s hard to keep my eyes on the road; I want to stop the truck and just stare at her, drink in the sight so I’ll never forget.

That might not be a problem. Even when I close my eyes for a second, stopped at a stop sign, I can see her face. She’s etched in my mind, her fragile body, her prim features. And underneath, a core of fire.

What made her so adaptable, so brave in the face of threats and violence? There’s something. I don’t know what it is, but something made her this way.

“You got a boyfriend?”

She gives me a dark look. “Yes.”

My blood boils, although I don’t know why I’d be jealous of some half-baked accountant who goes to church on Sunday. That’s the only kind of man I can see her with.

Liar.

I can see her with me. Under me. Over me with those firm little breasts moving as she rides me. But that’s just sex, and I figured out a long time ago not to trust my own body. Stimulation. Physical reaction. It can be anyone rubbing me, f*cking me, and as long as they do it the right way, I’ll orgasm. That doesn’t mean I won’t kill them.

“He must be worried. Are you usually home by now? Cooking dinner for him?”

She purses her lips during the brief pause. “We don’t live together. I live in a place on campus.”

“And he lives—where? Not on campus?”

“He’s… Yeah, he’s off campus. He lives…with his parents.”

Disbelief rocks through me, along with a healthy dose of relief.

Even though, why does it matter if she’s got a boyfriend? Some lame-ass boyfriend waiting at home does not matter at all. But the weight off my chest proves it does.

“There’s no boyfriend,” I say.

She scowls at me, proving me right. “Is too.”

God, she’s such a shitty liar. I love it. I want to watch her lie about everything. I want to watch her do everything. “Circumcised or not?”

Her mouth gapes open. She closes it and then opens it again. Nothing comes out. “He’s…he’s…”

“He’s made up.”

“No, he’s not! He’s a communications major in his junior year. And president of the history society. He has brown hair and…and freckles.”

I snort. “I’m sure there’s a guy you know like that. Maybe you even had a little crush on him. But you’re not dating him. And you’re definitely not f*cking him.”

Her eyes narrow. “Not everyone thinks about…you know.”

“You know. Is that what you call sex?” Now I’m sure she doesn’t have a boyfriend. In fact…is she a virgin? Because damn, that’s pretty goddamn innocent. For the first time with her, a whisper of concern runs through me. What if she’s too innocent?

What if I break her?

“Be specific, Ms. Winslow. What is it you’re not thinking about?”

Her blush spreads up from her chest to bloom in her cheeks. “Stop pretending you know what I’m thinking. You don’t know shit about me.”

I’m surprised by the bite of her words. I take another look at her, all wrecked and hot and dirty, head resting on the passenger window, hair tangled around her shoulders, out of that prim bun. There’s something natural about her like this.

You don’t know shit about me, she said.

My questions just make me hungrier for her. It feels like physical hunger, like thirst, a craving so deep I wouldn’t even know how to quench it. I can only make her talk and make her cry and make her hurt and hope it’s enough.