Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(37)

I come around the other side and roll into bed. I’m so exhausted, I’m nearly immune to her naked body, stretched out beside me. And we made a deal. My word has to mean something to her. I cover us both up with a blanket.

Just in case she has any ideas about trying to get out of her binds, I slide one arm underneath her head. The other one I fling over her waist. And last, I slide my foot over her tied-up leg, tangling us together. If she so much as coughs, I’ll feel it. There’s no way she can escape.

Her skin is soft. I listen to the sound of her breath, hoping she’ll sleep now, and wanting her like crazy.

“Thank you,” she whispers into the dark.





Chapter Twenty-One




Abigail


I lie in his arms, thinking about all the ways I’ll hurt him once he’s asleep, once I get my hands free. Scratch out his eyes, maybe punch my knuckles into his windpipe. I don’t need to beat him up, just disable him enough to get away.

So I wait, lightly pinned under his arm, his leg. He thinks he can keep me. He doesn’t know how small I can be, how quiet. The way I’d huddle in my room with my mangy cat, listening to the sound of fists on the other side of the door. That’s a form of weaponry, being small and quiet. He’ll never know what hit him.

The AC here has two settings—freezing and nothing, and it’s on freezing. But the parts of me he’s touching are warm, and his breath is warm on the nape of my neck.

My toes feel like little blocks of ice, and I shift my foot so that it’s under his huge calf, and then I tuck my other foot under that one. He stirs, pulling me closer, warming me, and it feels good, like somebody on this wasteland of a planet is saying, Let me keep you warm.

I never had anyone rock me to sleep before—my mother was too beaten up or strung out on coke to even recognize me most nights, but maybe this is how it would’ve felt. Calming. Soothing. Like somebody saying, I’m here.

For a split second, I imagine giving in to the comforting weight and warmth of his limbs on my body like I did in the woods, but I don’t—I’m not stupid. I keep myself as stiff and distant as possible. Except for my toes. He’s just so warm.

I wonder if that’s how it was for my mother. Hating and wanting the drugs at the same time.

Until it killed her.

It’s maybe a second later or hours later that I jerk awake—all I know is that I’m losing my battle with sleep. And my eyes are wet with tears. But he’s still holding me, and his heartbeat is steady as sunshine, and he has sandwiched my toes between his heavy legs and they’re finally warm. It’s like I’m tumbling. Falling.

How could I have softened toward Grayson for even a second?

Carefully, slowly, I extract myself from his hold. It’s like a real-life version of the game Pick Up Sticks, where I have to remove my limbs, one by one, without disturbing him at all. I untie my ankle with my toes.

It feels like a ten-foot drop out of the bed. My feet land too hard on the thin carpet. Pain shoots up my shins, a burst of white in the red streak of my thoughts. Escape. Get away.

Only my hands are attached to the bed, tied up with cloth. The bonds are tight but not cutting off circulation. I made my wrists clench, pumping extra blood through them, tensing the muscles without looking like I was doing it, when he tied me up. That way I’d have a better chance of getting out. Now I relax myself, willing my wrists to grow slimmer. I pull at them hard, trying not to yank and wake him, but I’m frantic to get free. He left enough room in the knots that I wouldn’t wake up with bruises, but I’ll have them now.

I twist against the fabric, trying not to think about the way he washed my cut. The way he carried me in the stream. How he could have demanded a lot worse than a hand job. There’s some kind of code he’s following, a twisted form of honor that I find almost endearing.

Except I can’t find him endearing. I can’t think he looks almost vulnerable, sleeping in the dark like a dangerous prince waiting to be woken with a kiss.

I lean in and try to loosen the tie with my teeth, then I pull and twist some more, wincing as the cloth cuts into my flesh. Little by little, I’m getting free.

I almost can’t believe my careful movements aren’t waking him, but I bet he didn’t sleep last night in the prison, all pumped for his escape today. And he fought in that riot. He carried me through the stream, and I may be small, but I’m not light. Then he drove for hours without stopping. He’s been on an adrenaline high for twenty hours, capped off by a hit of endorphins from the orgasm. He sleeps on.

And suddenly I’m loose.

I kneel on the floor, staring at my raw, swollen hands, no longer attached to the bed. I wait for Grayson to snap his eyes open and laugh his dark, gravelly laugh and tell me it has all been a test. But no. He sleeps on, and my heart twists as I watch his chest rise and fall. He’s a horrible human being, but he’s still a human being. That means something to me. It has to mean something, or I’m a horrible human being too.

I find my clothes in the bathroom and dress quickly. My body moves like a train leaving the station—slow at first and then building speed. Then racing. I hold my breath as the lock snicks. The hinges squeak, barely audible over the eager AC. I step into the darkness outside, breathing in that inimitable smell of nighttime and pine, and quietly shut the door.

Safe. Safe. Safe.