Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(32)



She knows what I’m doing. “I killed him.”

“You had to choose.”

She snorts, full of hate and derision, and I get in a flash that she never told anybody before. But she told me, now, and I can’t f*ck this up; it’s like she’s given me something fragile and I have to hold it and care for it.

I see her as that ten-year-old kid, scurrying to school, holding her little world together. I see her trying to make up for it. Repenting with her Sunday-school boyfriend who will never really touch her or make her feel anything real. Pulling stories out of guys like me because she knows how they scorch you inside.

“Hey,” I say, “look at me.” She finally looks at me, face lit by the dashboard lights. “You had to choose. Sometimes you have to choose between one shitty thing and another.”

“Is that personal experience talking, Grayson?”

She’s trying to push the spotlight back on me. It makes her nervous, me seeing her like this. And that’s how I know this is real. When she’s flustered and angry, that’s when I’m seeing the real her. “You saved your mother. That’s what matters. Some people have to die.”

“Like me?” she snaps.

“Dying’s not what you’ll be doing, Abby.”

She looks away, but not fast enough to hide the flush on her cheeks. “I didn’t even feel bad after,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I always felt bad about not feeling bad, but never for killing him. Not ever. It’s psycho.”

“Why would you feel bad for saving your mom?” I’m starting to get pissed because she shouldn’t feel bad about any of it. In fact, I want to rip somebody’s face off, but that’s not helpful, either. “To a kid that age, listen—saving your mother is the same as saving yourself. It’s the same f*cking thing.”

“Don’t try to make me feel better,” she says.

“I’m not. I’m being straight with you.”

She glares at me, but the glare just covers the torment sunk deep in her eyes, and panic flares in my heart because I’m failing her.

I reach down, desperate for something good to give her from inside my worthless self. Something real. “Sometimes, Abigail, you have to punch a f*cking hole in your soul to survive.” I might be driving like a maniac, I don’t know. We’re off the highway, but I’m still going highway speeds. I reach over and grab her, pull her clear across the seat to me. “Most people never have to find out what kind of shit they’re really capable of. Most people don’t have to turn themselves into something they hate just to make sure they can get that next breath.”

I might be digging my fingers into her upper arm, but I need to feel her. Her eyes are like mirrors in the greenish light. I can see myself in them.

“You’re going too fast,” she whispers.

I slow slightly. “You know who doesn’t do that? Who doesn’t do the f*cked-up thing?”

She’s crying now. I think it might be relief. That’s what it feels like inside me as I watch the tears roll down her cheeks.

I answer my own question. “The kid who ends up dead, that’s who.” I slam on my brakes. I nearly ran a red light. We’re two feet into the intersection. Keep it together. But I’m coming apart.

“Where are we going?”

There’s a town just ahead, and I’m going for it. This truck is near expired. “Switching vehicles.”

She sniffs out a breath. Some kind of subtle cut.

I’m way beyond subtle. “You and me, we survive, okay?”

She’s watching me, but she doesn’t seem to hear, sitting there, dark hair tangled around her pale face, red-rimmed eyes shining. “You are so f*cking beautiful,” I say.

The light turns green.

And then I kiss her.





Chapter Nineteen




Abigail


Tears swim in my eyes. I’m underwater but still breathing.

I don’t see his eyes darken or his head lowering. I can’t see the signs of a predator closing in, especially when he doesn’t look anything like a predator. He looks concerned—about me, when almost no one has ever cared. Definitely not a man like this. Virile and strong. Powerful. He renders me breathless with just a low-lidded look. There’s no time to be afraid before his lips touch mine. They’re softer than I could have imagined. His words are jagged shards of glass, accusations and threats. Lies. But his lips tell a different story.

They’re warm and comforting, pressed flush against my mouth. Even an hour ago I would have jerked away. I would have slapped him. But this kiss tells me he understands. Death and kisses. Blood and sex. They twine together in a dark braid I bury deep inside. He pulls it out of me, rips it from my heart and leaves my throat raw and tight.

He parts my lips and slips inside. There’s a moment of hesitation. Do I let him? A rough sound of impatience vibrates from his lips to mine. His hand tightens on the back of my neck. He’s not asking; he’s taking. He takes my air and breathes it back into me. He takes control of me, and I can finally give in.

I can finally let go.

He rubs his tongue against mine, raising goose bumps along my arms. I never want him to stop, and as if he hears my deepest desires, he tightens his hold on me. One hand fisted in my hair. The other on my hip, pulling me closer.

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