This is all true, but it hits like a punch to my chest.
“I can promise you, asshole, that your life will be much easier if you let me go,” I say, trying to sound firm and confident and not like my knees are turning to water. I want to sit down again before my inevitable collapse, but his hand is still gripping my neck. His calloused fingertips idly stroke along the skin over my galloping pulse.
“Maybe I was wrong about you being a fox,” he muses, sounding like he’s talking to himself. “With a heart rate like this, you’re more like a jackrabbit.” His gaze returns to my face. “Do you have jackrabbits in Iowa, lass?”
“This conversation just took a left turn into What the Fucking Hell-Ville,” I say.
His grip tightens slightly. “Do you?”
“I- I don’t know,” I sputter. “Probably. Is this important?”
One corner of his mouth turns up into a brief smile as if it’s too much of an investment to offer a real one. “Other than Iowa being one of those rectangular midwestern states, I don’t know much about it. How did you make enough tips at your bar gig to travel to Europe?”
Because I save every penny I can,asshole.
I live in a glorified backyard tool shed because the rent is cheap, and the nice lady who owns the house brings me cookies when I take out her garbage cans. I haven’t bought a new item of clothing in my entire life.
My folks were poor, but I never felt that way until I had to move in with Aunt Martha. She constantly chastised me for being such an expense, a burden, and that my parents left her with nothing to take care of me. I gave her my checks from my after-school jobs, but it was never enough to make her happy.
It was easier sleeping under the bleachers in the school gym than listening to her litany of insults, so I wasn’t even upset when I came home from school on my eighteenth birthday to find two boxes holding everything I owned on the front stoop. Given our neighborhood, I was surprised they were still there.
I suspect they’d been rifled through, but there wasn’t anything in my personal belongings worth stealing.
However, this is all my fucking business and not his, so I narrow my eyes and glare at him. “Does it distress you to know that poor people sometimes manage to travel? Are you offended that we’re breathing the same air as your rarified self?”
A bit too late, I remember his warning about throwing me to the rest of the wolves, so I shut up as his fingers squeeze my neck again. I’m acutely aware of his hand on my throat. His skin is warm and rough, like he works with his hands, which is, of course, ridiculous. The callouses are probably from crew or polo or some other rich person sport. He’s conducting a thorough visual examination from my muddy sneakers to my (no doubt) snarled hair, and he does not look impressed with what he sees.
“Why did you fight your precious bullwhip-wielding buddy for me?” If I’m going down, I may as well see if he’ll answer any of my questions first.
Arching one dark brow, he says, “He was a fecking arsehole. I just… felt like it.”
He’s certainly scary and evil enough for this answer to make sense, but I keep recalling that brief flash of regret from earlier.
“What’s going to happen when the others find out?” I must have a death wish, but I’ve never been able to shut up, even when it’s in my best interests to do so.
Dropping his hand from my neck, he angles his head toward the bedroom. “Get a couple of hours’ sleep. You’re going to need the rest.”
“Why do I-”
Hands fasten like manacles around my upper arms, and he lifts me like I’m an annoying toddler and puts me in the tiny bedroom. There’s no window, and the only way out is through the door. He watches me look for escape routes with another half-smile. “Lie down, little fox. I have work to do.”
He closes the door, and I hear the deadbolt click into place on the other side. The bed creaks like Aunt Martha’s arthritic knees, but the sheets are clean. I know I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll just sit here and try to come up with a plan.
Chapter Six
In which we learn that right when you don’t think things can get any worse, they usually do.
Luna…
“Wake up, little fox…”
Sitting up so fast that my head swims, I glare at my captor, who is seated on the bed and watching me with amusement.
“Careful, you almost fell off.”
The bed’s pushed up against the wall, so there’s nowhere to retreat from him. He’s enormous, and he’s looming over me. “I can’t believe I fell asleep,” I mumble. Of course, he has an opinion.
“You’re exhausted from dragging around your friend last night. Ya dinna have any sense of self-preservation, do you? You’re too protective of weaker folk.” He doesn’t say it like he thinks that is a positive attribute. This also reminds me of Marla. Oh,shit. Is she still hiding in the boat house? Did they find her?
