Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(40)

The next thing I know, I’m startled awake by a crash. I shoot up from where I lay.

Above me, there’s a dark shape. Sunlight streams around it, giving it an unearthly halo. The clink of keys.

“I told you not to run.”

Grayson. He sounds pissed.

I scramble back and hit the wall.

He opens the cell door and stands above me, looking down, his expression black.

“How did you get in here?” I look around. Try to listen for signs of life. “Where is…”

“Don’t worry, nobody’s dead. Yet.”

I don’t know who he’s threatening—me or the cop, or maybe the whole damn world. He’s capable of anything.

“Up.” Something flashes in the gloom, and I realize he has a gun in his hand. I stiffen. “That’s right,” he says with a sparkle in his eyes, still seeming to track my every thought. “You ready to be good?”

“What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?”

“I’ve had hours to tell everything I know—what your friend looks like. The license plate.”

“Did you?”

“They didn’t question me yet, but—”

“Didn’t think so.”

“But you didn’t know that!”

He gives me this look, calm and sure. It’s as if I’ve been out there buffeted by wild ocean waves, and he’s a strong, solid rock outcrop. He’s sharp in places too—maybe touching him will rip me open. I don’t know how to feel.

“Why?” I whisper.

He kneels, putting himself at my level, and something like concern flickers in his eyes. “Because I had to get you out of here.” He closes his hand around my upper arm and pulls me up. “I’ll always come for you. You’re mine.”





Chapter Twenty-Two




Grayson


Abby sleeps, curled up where I set her in the passenger seat. It would make my life easier if she never woke up, but I can’t stop looking at her, worrying over her like a damned mother hen. God, she needs water. And food. She seems feverish, but that could be exhaustion. Her wrists are raw from where she pulled against the ties. I should’ve heard her. I should’ve stopped her.

I’ve been doing a shit job of taking care of her.

That’s unlikely to change much, but there is one place I can take her. I take the back roads past closed-down shops and empty trailer parks, keeping a careful eye on her. Sometimes I touch her, just to make sure she’s breathing, that her pulse is there.

Her face looks peaceful now, but it makes my gut clench to remember her in there, caged up like an animal.

Why the f*ck did they arrest her?

I tried to get an answer out of the sheriff, but I suppose I didn’t give him enough time. Doesn’t matter. I already know it’s the governor. He just keeps f*cking me over—framing me for killing that cop. And now he’s framed Abby.

It’s like he knew she was important to me.

I make a quick call on a pay phone when we stop for gas, then hop back in and keep right on going, even though my eyes feel full of gravel.

A small-town sheriff doesn’t mean anything to me, but they’ll bring in the FBI on this. I’m supposed to be much farther away by now, but Abby’s escape attempt set me back. I’ve been awake for forty-eight hours except for those two or three hours in the motel. This isn’t the kind of exhaustion a Mountain Dew will fix; it’s the kind that will get me killed.

And get Abby killed.

I don’t know when she started to matter. She does, though. She matters. I couldn’t shoot her in the back as she ran away from the truck. I couldn’t let her suffocate in that damned jail.

Something has changed inside me. A weakness? I’m not sure yet.

I’m driving and keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, but I decide I don’t like how she’s sleeping, with her neck all crooked. In a way, it would serve her right to wake up with an ache in her neck, but I shift her anyway, her cheek to my thigh, which is as close to a pillow as she’ll get. I press two fingers to her throat, and only then do I realize my hand is shaking even though there’s nothing to worry about: her pulse is strong and even.

She’s going to be okay.

Everything is going to be okay. I survived three guys in the shower room trying to pin me down. Yeah, I broke a couple of ribs and cracked my skull, but I made it out alive. That’s my mantra. I can survive anything. Even her.

I stroke her hair. My voice starts out thready. “Why did you run? Could’ve gotten yourself killed. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?”

She doesn’t answer, of course. That’s okay. If she can hear me, if she recognizes my voice, maybe she’ll feel safe. But what am I thinking? She’ll always fear me. Always associate me with darkness.

The way I do the governor.

“How’d you get out of those knots, huh?” Either I was sloppy or my little bird knew a trick.

She shifts and her hand rests on my thigh just above my knee. Maybe she thinks it’s a pillow, I don’t know. I just know how bad I want her to keep it there. I trace the curve of her ear, the hollow of her neck. I should be watching the road, but I can’t take my eyes off her.

I imagine her waiting for me to sleep, her breathing so even that my senses would be fooled. I imagine her ripping her wrists from the ties, clenching through the pain. I can’t help but like her.