He cuts the zip tie from my wrists. The plastic falls away, and I wince as I rub my bruised and reddened skin.
“I don’t know who poisoned him,” Zane says, his eyes scanning our surroundings. “He called, said he’d been poisoned and was on his way to you. That’s all I know.”
My heart clenches. “Will he live?” The question comes out as a whisper, fear making my voice tremble.
Zane’s expression tightens. A flicker of something—concern? Worry?—passing over his face.
“I don’t know,” he admits, and the honesty in his voice is more terrifying than any lie could be. “We don’t know what he was given or in what dose. It took time to get the chopper here. I hope it was fast enough.”
“Why did he come here?” I ask the question burning in my mind. “Why didn’t he go straight to a hospital?”
Zane snorts. “Because he’s a stubborn son of a bitch. He insisted you were in trouble and he had to get to you. Nothing I said could change his mind.”
Because of me. He’s fighting for his life because of me. I shake, guilt and fear threatening to overwhelm me.
“The police are on their way,” Zane says, his tone shifting to business-like efficiency. “I’ll handle the situation with your permission. Then we’ll get you home and cleaned up.”
“Cleaned up?” I repeat, confused.
A small, grim smile tugs at Zane’s lips. “Unless you want to keep that blood and otherpiecesin your hair as a souvenir.”
My stomach lurches. “What?” I raise a trembling hand to my hair, feeling something wet and sticky. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” I cover my mouth, fighting the urge to be sick.
“Need to vomit?” Zane asks, his tone maddeningly calm.
What has this man seen in his life that he can stand here, unfazed by blood, death, and human remains? The thought sends another wave of nausea through me.
I double over, retching onto the ground. My empty stomach heaves, acid burning my throat. Zane hands me a napkin, and I wipe my mouth, straightening up on shaky legs. His expression hasn’t changed, not even a flicker of disgust or sympathy.
“I need to get this off,” I mumble.
“Not yet,” Zane says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The police need to see you as you are. It’ll corroborate your story.”
“My story?” I ask, confusion cutting through the fog of shock and fear.
“Yes. The version you’ll tell them,” Zane explains, his eyes boring into mine. “He held you at gunpoint, threatened your life. Your bodyguard protected you. That’s what happened, right?”
I nod, trying to process his words. “How did you know? You weren’t here.”
Zane’s mouth twists into a grim smile. “I’ve seen enough. The evidence speaks for itself. You were inches from him when he was shot, and I’m guessing it wasn’t by choice. Is that what happened?” His eyes narrow. “Because if not, I need to know now if there’s more...cleaning up to do.”
I choke back another wave of nausea rising in my throat and nod. “Cleaning?”
“Let’s just say I don’t abandon my people, no matter what they’ve done,” Zane says. “The man who held you?—”
“Josh,” I interject, my eyes flicking to the body on the ground. I glance away, my stomach churning.
“Did Josh say anything that could help the investigation? Anything at all?”
I close my eyes, trying to focus through the haze of fear and adrenaline. “He said someone hired him. Paid him to take me. That’s all.”
Zane nods as if confirming a suspicion. “Nothing else? Think hard.”
“No, I—” I pause, a memory surfacing. “Wait. He told Ryder that the man hired him by email, through the dark web. Is that helpful?”
Zane types something into his phone, his expression unreadable.
“What’s going to happen to Ryder?” I ask, fear clenching my heart.
