Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
“Try smiling.”
He doesn’t answer. He just opens the SUV door and waits.
I pause. “I’m not getting in the car until I know where we’re going.”
“We’re going to Salt & Steel headquarters really quickly.” He gestures for me to get into the car. “And then, you’re going to a safe house.”
“That’s vague. Safe house where? In South Carolina? In the middle of nowhere? In someone’s basement with a collection of porcelain dolls?”
His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze sharpens. “You don’t get to pick.”
I lean closer, keeping my voice light, like I’m not suddenly aware of how exposed we are out here. “I do get to pick,” I say. “I pick not dying. I pick knowing the plan. I pick not being treated like luggage.”
For the first time, something shifts in his face. Not softness. Not warmth. Respect, maybe. “Fine,” he says. “We’re not staying in South Carolina. We move before whoever’s watching realizes you’ve been extracted. We drive north, switch vehicles twice. Then we fly out from a smaller strip. Final location is off-grid.”
“Off-grid like no Wi-Fi off-grid?” I ask, already horrified.
“Off-grid like nobody finds you.”
“I have a job,” I say. “Deadlines. Editors. A cat sitter who’s going to steal my furniture if I don’t respond.”
He gives me a look. “You have a target on your back.”
“And you have the bedside manner of a door,” I say.
He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s counting to ten. Then he looks at me again. “Get in the car, Rowan.”
I hold his gaze for one more heartbeat, because I refuse to be intimidated by cheekbones and tactical competence. Then I climb in. Because I’m not stupid.
Sin slides in after me, and the door shuts with a heavy thunk that makes my chest tighten. The driver pulls out smoothly, tires crunching over gravel.
I glance through the tinted window at the airstrip shrinking behind us. This is happening. I’m really being kidnapped by my mother’s hired weapon.
Sin leans back, arms braced casually on his thighs, posture loose but alert. He’s watching the mirrors. Watching the road. Watching me, intermittently, like I’m an unpredictable animal that might bite.
I clear my throat. “So.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’m Rowan,” I say. “In case you missed it in the whole dramatic airstrip introduction.”
His eyes flick to mine. “I didn’t miss it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Great. You’re Sin, like a comic book villain. Do you also have a cape?”
He exhales, the closest thing to a laugh I’ve gotten so far. “You’re trying too hard.”
“I’m trying exactly hard enough to not freak out,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
His gaze lingers on me, and his voice drops. “You scared?”
I open my mouth to deny it. But last night flashes through my head. The impact. The skid. The moment my car fishtailed and my heart tried to climb out of my throat. I swallow. “I’m irritated.”
His mouth curves. “That wasn’t the question.”
I glare at him. “I’m fine.”
“Lie.”
I gasp, offended. “Excuse you.”
“You’re brave,” he says, like it costs him nothing to admit it. “But you’re not fine.”
My stomach flips in an annoying little swoop. I look away, pretending the view out the window is fascinating. It’s South Carolina scrub and highway and the kind of flat horizon that makes you feel like you could run forever and still not escape your problems.
“You don’t know me,” I say quietly.
“I know enough,” he replies. “You didn’t cancel your life after the first threat. You kept digging. You kept writing. That’s not reckless. That’s conviction.”
I glance back at him.
His face is unreadable, but his eyes are steady. And suddenly, I’m not just irritated. I’m… aware. Of him. Of the space between us. Of the fact that he’s the only reason I’m not still standing on that airstrip like a neon sign that says Please Murder Me.
I hate it. I hate being dependent. I hate being handled.
But I also hate being dead, so.
The SUV merges onto the highway. My phone buzzes again. This time it’s not my mother. It’s an unknown number. A single text pops up on my screen.
YOU CAN’T HIDE BEHIND SOLDIERS FOREVER.
My blood turns cold.
Sin notices instantly, because of course he does. He doesn’t miss anything. “What is it?” he asks.
I hold up the phone. His gaze locks on the message, and the humor drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. “Give me that,” he says, voice sharp now.
I hand it over, fingers suddenly clumsy.
He types something fast, then he pulls out a little baggie and slips the phone in it. “Rowan,” he says, low and controlled, “from this moment on, you do exactly what I say.”
My mouth goes dry. “Was that… was that them?”
His eyes cut to the road, scanning, calculating. “Yeah,” he says. “And it means they know you’re moving.”
A chill slips down my spine. I try to laugh, because that’s what I do when I’m terrified, but the sound comes out thin. “Well,” I manage, “at least my mother hired the charming one.”