I grip the lever and pull.
Nothing happens.
I yank it again. Still nothing.
A deep chuckle rumbles beside me. “Child lock is on,” Zero says, his voice thick with amusement.
I turn to glare at him. “Shut up.”
He grins, not at all bothered.
I press my back against the seat, my hands curling into fists. Reality slams into me, crushing and inescapable. There’s no getting out of this car. No running. No fighting. I’ll just end up with my face in the dirt and a hand around my throat again. Theyare going to use me until they get what they want. It never ends with Vick. My whole life he’s done this. I can never escape him.
I hate this.
I can’t see any way out of it.
I have to do what they’re forcing me to do. I have to play their game.
Chapter Twenty-Five
DAMIAN
The gunfire stops and only a high-pitched ringing remains. Then, the roar of tires kicking up gravel, the sharp screech of a car peeling away.
I push up from the floor, my pulse hammering in my ears.Marlowe is gone. She ran. She got away. Or maybe she’s dead. I don’t like that thought. Not one fucking bit. I just watched her throw herself over my mother to protect her. No hesitation. No second-guessing. She didn’t think about herself for a second.
Fuck.
But she knew what Vick was doing.
She had to.
Right?
Fucking hell. What if she really didn’t know? What if she was telling the truth the whole time?
Bridger stands by the window, his grip tight on his gun, his breath still uneven from the gunfire. “They just drove off. Zero tackled her hard, dragged her kicking and screaming into the car.”
Something in my chestlocks up.
Bridger turns, his eyes locking onto mine. “Damian… that didn’t look like someone who was in on it with them.”
I don’t respond. I can’t.
Bridger’s face shifts, his brows pulling together. “Oh fuck.” He takes a step closer. “Damian, you’re bleeding.”
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
“You’re bleeding a lot.”
I look down and press a hand to my side. It comes away slick and red. Bridger curses, but his voice feels far away. My knees weaken.I take a step and the floor rushes up to meet me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
MARLOWE
The motel room smells stale, a mix of cigarette smoke and cheap cleaning supplies that might have been spilled once but never actually used. Strips of wallpaper dangle toward the floor. The bedspread is covered in stains, and there’s a half-empty soda can on the nightstand that’s been there long enough to collect dust.
