Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(23)

But I have to try.

They both spring up at the same time, but this time the guy has his right hand in the crease at the bottom of the alligator’s jaw. He holds it up and away from him as his left hand reaches over and clamps over the top of the gator’s snout to actually hold its mouth closed! If that isn’t enough, he leaps onto the thing’s back and deftly wraps the black bandana that had been on his neck around the alligator’s muzzle, then just holds the head back and floats there calmly—like it’s a f*cking magic trick.

“You okay now?” he says to the creature. “I’m going to let you go now, nice and easy, but you’ve got to stop being an *.”

I feel my jaw drop and eyes widen at the scene in front of me.

He pushes the creature, which looks like a freaking dinosaur, gently out of his way before swimming over to me and carefully climbing over the side onto the boat.

“Are you alright?” he asks me. Like he was worried about me while tackling a man-eating reptile.

Why would he even care?

“Farrington?” he presses when I don’t respond the first time.

“Why did you push me out of the way? Why? Why would you put yourself at death’s door to keep me alive?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, all serious. Then, before I can answer, he smiles cockily and asks, “Why did you come back to help me?”

I don’t know what to say.

Waiting impatiently, he prods, “Well?”

“I don’t know . . . and, oh my God . . . you were flirting with me!”

The smile broadens across his face and he wears it proudly. “Hell yes, ma’am, it was a badass moment.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “So that’s what you do, go around defying death and rescuing women in distress.”

“Someone’s got to do it.”

I size him up. He’s a really big man—all muscle and might. He stands close to six feet two inches, anyway. His dark brown hair is cut military-style, and his green eyes seem to hold more laughter than violence. He has boyish good looks with a rugged man’s charm, and there’s a hint of tattoo showing on his neck where the bandana had been.

I need to change the subject. “Will the alligator die?”

“Why would he die?”

“You tied his mouth shut.” I still don’t know how he managed that feat.

“I tied it in a slipknot. He’ll get it undone soon enough.” He reaches down and grabs the oar before taking a seat. “Sit, we still have to get the hell out of Dodge.”

He starts to row and I peer off behind us. The light of the moon is brighter and lower than when we were first running. And with the turns, bends and land islands (for lack of the correct term), I can’t see any flashlight beams cutting through the shadows. But I can still hear the dogs. Their barks echo across the swamp.

I turn back decisively to try and figure out my . . . companion.

His powerful arms row the shoddy boat swiftly. On the downstroke, I notice streams of blood pressing out and escaping the cuffs of his shirt.

“You’re bleeding!” I exclaim.

“Yeah, Godzilla got a pretty good mouthful.”

“Oh my God, you were bit?” I freak. “We need to look at it!”

His features pinch in a look that says, don’t be ridiculous. “Why would we need to do that?”

The blood follows the direction of the woodgrain on the oar.

“I think you’re bleeding more than you want to admit.”

“I’ve bled worse, trust me,” he quips as if all of this is nothing. “Don’t look at me like that—I’d look at it just for you, but we don’t have time yet. Later,” he promises, and that’s the end of that.

“So, you really are a bounty hunter?”

“Tried and true.”

“Tell me your name again.”

“Ryder. Ryder Axton,” he reiterates. “And you are Rachel Farrington.”

“What were you doing there? In the house.”

“I was taking in Eduardo Miguel, who’s a fugitive wanted in connection with the murder of Drew Jameson and the disappearance of federal witness Rachel Farrington.”

“How did you know I was in there? Could you see me?”

“No, ma’am.” He goes serious. “I heard chains.”

“Oh.” I drop my head and automatically massage my wrists where the cuff had held me.

“My original plan was to capture Miguel. But rescuing you became my mission instead.”

“You know they’ll want to kill you now,” I warn.

“Let them come, I don’t give a f*ck,” he states happily. “I love a good fight.”

I’d like to laugh at his light humor, but I can’t even crack a grin. The thought of them catching us makes me shudder.

“Did they hurt you? Did they . . .?” There’s caution in his question, like maybe he wants to know but doesn’t want the answer all at the same time.

I suck in a deep breath. “No. I’m actually—physically—okay. I thought I was going to get a lot worse. They hardly talked to me at all. The only one who really did was a man named Pedro—I think he had a mental disability. They used him to feed me and fetch my waste. He obviously didn’t like what they were doing with me.”