No!
I can’t go back. I won’t.
Shrieking like a wildcat, I fight my attacker with all my strength. I scratch and claw at his clothes and skin, anything I can reach. Biting and dropping my weight, even kicking for his privates.
The man swears, barely holding onto me.
A hand digs into my hair and yanks my head back at an awkward angle.
“Finally,” the first man mutters. “Take her legs.”
I fight through the pain, thrashing and flailing. My dress rips as they struggle to contain me.
If they get me in that car, it’s over.
“Fuck,” the second man grunts when I reach back and claw his face.
“Why does he want her so badly?” The other snarls, grabbing for my arms.
Metal thunks against metal, like the sound of a car door.
I barely register it before something slams into the second attacker. His hand loosens from my hair a split second before the heat of his body disappears, and I’m falling backward.
The first guy tips forward, trying to hold me up.
A shadow blurs, and he’s gone. Fists hit flesh as I tumble to the ground, landing hard on my hip and elbow.
I blink, and a pair of dusty cowboy boots comes into view, standing between me and my attackers. I follow them up to a third man.
He draws a gun and points it at the two men.
“Go.”
The single command has them easing to their feet. The first man glances at me.
The cowboy shifts, blocking his line of sight. “Now.”
They limp to their SUV. Seconds later, only the glow of their taillights remain.
My savior holsters his weapon and slowly turns.
His face is in shadow with the streetlamps behind him and the rim of his cowboy hat pulled low. I can just make out a trimmed beard of dark hair, firm lips, and intense eyes.
My heart climbs my throat. I should run, but my body is bruised and not used to this exertion. The cold is seeping into my skin everywhere it’s exposed, and since my dress is almost nonexistent, that’s everywhere. A shiver rips through my body, and my teeth start to chatter.
The man swears and strips off his jacket. Metal glints in the light, and I catch sight of a badge on his hip. A plaid flannel stretches across the broadest chest I’ve ever seen, and he smells like leather.
“Camille Whitaker?” he asks, voice rumbling as he holds his jacket out to me.
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
He slowly leans forward and wraps the jacket around my shoulders, telegraphing every move like he’s dealing with an injured animal.
The thought is funny, but even a smile is too much.
“Your father sent me,” he says.
Those four words break through my terror, and I scramble to my feet. “No. No, no, no. You can’t take me back.Please.” I lurch forward and grab his shirt in my fists, staring up into his shadowed face.
