Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(71)

“He’s the one who kidnapped you?” It’s the obvious answer, but nothing about Grayson is obvious. He is all muscle and hardness—but I’ve peeled back the layers, and what I find inside is tender.

There is nothing tender in his expression when he answers. “No, that honor was reserved for a guy with a wad of cash and an ice cream truck. Did I want a Popsicle? Did I want some money too? I had fifty cents in my pocket, Abby. And I hadn’t eaten lunch that day.”

My stomach churns.

“The governor would never dirty his hands by doing actual work. There were men who kidnapped us and kept us. The governor just earned money from the films they made us do. And of course he visited us personally. Especially me.” Grayson’s laugh sends chills up my spine. “He can buy anything he wants. He can buy this whole state. He can buy little boys.”

All I can do is go to him and put my hands on him. To speak to him in some twisted language of love that only we two speak, where we hurt each other just to soothe the wounds that follow.

Grayson’s voice is raw now. Just like his words, his vignette. “I was his favorite. That’s why the guys didn’t try to kill him while I was locked up. It’s because I was…I was his favorite.”

His voice cracks.

The word favorite tastes like bile, burning me from the inside out. Favorite. And all the horrible things that would mean for a boy held captive by men.

There is sympathy I could give him. A normal person would say those things. I’m so sorry. What he did was wrong. You didn’t deserve it. I hate him.

I love you.

Saying that would only mess him up worse, because he won’t believe me. He can’t believe me. So instead I say the one thing I know will help. The one thing that really matters. And by doing so, I bind myself to him more firmly than if I used rope or handcuffs.

“Let me come with you.” Getting the floor plans isn’t enough. I need to be with him on this twisted quest, even if I think it’s wrong.

Especially then.

He raises his eyebrows. His voice is mocking when he says, “You.”

I narrow my eyes and step forward, invading his space. The way he taught me, by example. “I’m tougher than I look.”

His expression sobers. “I know that, sweetheart. You’d have to be, to survive me.”

My throat tightens. This is how he sees himself. As something to be endured. Inhuman.

Unlovable.

I’m afraid that killing the governor won’t give him the peace he wants. I’m afraid he’ll break then, when he realizes nothing will.





Chapter Thirty-Five




Abigail


We’re at the big table in the main room, the place where they first laid out Grayson when I brought him here. The guys are all here: Nate, Stone, Grayson, Calder, Cruz, Knox, and Ryland. The guys are splitting tools and guns. They’re suiting up.

I don’t get a gun. There’s just me, wrapped in a sense of dread. I think this is a mistake. I think killing the governor is a mistake.

But I can’t turn away from Grayson. I can’t tell him no. Some people have a relationship that’s sunshine and roses. Ours is darkness and vengeance.

It’s time.

We pile into two vehicles. They’re stowing the Hummer nearby in case things get hot. One of their fancy toys they rarely use, but apparently it’s bulletproof. I’m in the town car with Grayson. We drive across empty streets, barren of cars at four in the morning, until we’re winding down the streets of an exclusive community. We park in the shadow of an outbuilding, and the five of us move quickly through the dark to the next block.

One of the guys settles in next to a stone gate that shields him from the moonlight and gives him a clear view of the governor’s driveway. He’ll alert Grayson and Stone and the rest of them to any danger. Maybe even fend it off. I wouldn’t want to fight him.

The governor’s mansion is illuminated by spotlights that shine upward from the ground, making it look like a castle. The guard inside the little booth at the gate is slumped over, drugged. I can’t help but feel guilty.

I don’t know why, but my resolve firms when I look at Grayson, beautiful in his woundedness, like an avenging angel, taking justice for lost innocence. The mortal rules don’t apply.

Down the street, somebody’s sprinkler swishes back and forth.

We split and rush down the driveway, hugging the shadows, and rush across the lawn. We slip through the shadows to the back of the massive house and crouch in the grass on the dark side of the stone rail that’s held up by carved stone balustrades; it stretches all around the edges of the red tile porch. The plan is that Nate and I keep watch in back. Grayson and Stone and the rest of the guys are going in—through the roof. The blueprints we stole showed the way. They’ll clear the house and let us in.

Grayson touches my cheek, and then he’s off in the night.

A soft pop sounds across the quiet. Then another. Disabling the guards. Nate’s fixed a few of the guys up with safari tranquilizer guns. We have intel that the governor and his wife sleep in separate rooms and the wife takes heavy sleep meds, but Nate thinks we should tranquilize her anyway.

I sit in the dewy grass, barely breathing. Nate eyes me. “They’ll be fine. They’re the best.”