Hell Breaks Loose (Devil's Rock #2)(26)

Her brain started functioning, putting together the fact that the sound of running water was a shower. Everything clicked into place. Reid was in the shower. He wasn’t in the room, watching her. And her hands and feet weren’t bound. Now was her chance.

She vaulted off the bed, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in her muscles and wrists. She lunged out of the bedroom, rotating in a swift circle in the living room, her heart galloping sixty miles a minute. Her environment distracted her for a moment, confused her. It was nothing like the last place. This house, even as sparsely furnished as it was, felt like a home. Yellow-orange lamplight flickered over the wood floors and paneled walls, casting dancing shadows over an Aztec-patterned blanket draped over the couch. The place smelled of cedar and pine. All deceptively comforting.

Time was fading. She could still hear the water running, but she knew it could stop at any moment. Reid could walk out of the bathroom and see her.

Heart still thumping madly, she scanned all the surfaces, searching for the keys to the van. Nothing. No sight of them. He must have them with him in the bathroom.

Suddenly, the water shut off. She squeaked and danced on her feet for a moment before making a split decision.

She bolted. Flung open the front door, taking a moment to shut it behind her, hoping that bought her a little more time. Maybe he would search inside the house before looking outside.

She had no clue where they were. Presumably still in Texas. She didn’t know how long she had slept while he drove them here, but it was a big state. She knew you could drive forever without leaving it. Squinting, she peered into the darkness. She stood in a small patch of open yard. Just beyond it, trees and shrubs crowded together beneath a horizon of distant mountains several shades darker than the night sky.

A narrow road peeped out between the thick foliage. That ribbon of dirt looked like the only way in or out. She took off down it, hoping desperately that another car would appear or that she would reach another house, people, someone . . . something. Fervent, frantic, wishful thoughts. Prayers, really. Prayers that she knew would go unheeded. As she ran, her shoes beating into the dirt road, she faced the likely truth. There would be no cars, no people, no other houses.

No, Reid would have made sure there was no one close to them. She knew that much about him. He was a criminal, but he was no idiot. Wherever they were, it would be isolated. That realization led to another. She couldn’t continue running down the road—he would eventually catch up with her. All he had to do was hop in the van and track her down.

Pumping her arms faster, she swerved off the road and dove into the thick undergrowth. Thick was an understatement. It was like wading through sludge. Her breath came faster, vapor-thick and wet with panicked sobs. God, she really should have taken Holly up on her unsubtle offers to run with her in the mornings. Or join her for cross-fit. Then her lungs wouldn’t feel like they needed a hyperbaric chamber.

Her chest tightened and constricted, pushing and pulling air in and out. In and out. It was slow going. Too many trees, too much brush clawing and grabbing and tearing at her. A sharp branch sliced her cheek. She whimpered but kept going, not worried about where she was headed as long as it was away. Far away from the cabin and the man inside it. Anywhere else was better. Safer than here. Safer than with him.



The first thing he noticed when he shut off the shower and stepped out was the silence. Thick as fog. He wasn’t used to that. In prison there were always sounds. Solitude was an illusion.

He rubbed himself dry with a towel, scrubbing at his face and head, and then he paused, relishing this moment. Outside he could hear the cicadas and a faint mountain breeze rustling the leaves on the trees. If not for the fact that there was an abducted woman asleep in the next room, he could almost imagine himself free. At peace.

At the Rock, even at night, asleep in his cell, there were voices. Coughing, sniffing, a distant guard laughing or playing a radio. Sometimes, on certain nights, you could hear someone crying. Nothing like prison to turn grown men into babies, weeping for their mothers.

He exhaled and glanced at the tiny square window above the toilet. The night was ink dark out there, the position of the window too low to grant him a view of the stars. Too bad. He would have to go out on the porch and admire the view later. He wouldn’t have that when he went back to the Rock. He wouldn’t have a lot of things when he went back.

Against his will, his mind drifted, latched onto the image of her in the next room, curled up on the bed asleep, all soft female, waiting to be touched. Christ. No, she wasn’t. If he walked in there and touched her, she would wake up screaming.

He knotted the towel at his waist and stepped in front of the mirror, wiping the glass clean of fog. He stared at his reflection, considering what he saw for a moment . . . considering what Grace Reeves saw when she looked at him.

He was nothing like the fine men in suits she was accustomed to. Scarred and tatted, muscled and rangy, he wasn’t gentle or refined. His wet, close-cut hair looked almost dark against his scalp. When he was a kid he had worn it long, well past his neck. He learned quickly in prison that long hair was not a good idea. It gave the guy jumping you something to grip as he was trying to kick your ass.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he started to head for the second bedroom, where he had dropped his bag.

The moment he stepped out, however, he froze. Something wasn’t right. Something was different. He scanned the room, searching for anything out of the ordinary. All was still and silent, just as it had been before he entered the shower, but the wary feeling was there, deep in his gut. The same wariness that had kept him alive for so long at the Rock.