"What do you want?" I asked bluntly.
Merrick's grin turned predatory. "What we've always wanted."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You."
Something in me went to ice.
The same cold that had settled into my bones the day I'd realized what St. Paul's actually was. A kid who just wanted to play sports in college, finding himself trapped in a wolf's den that wasn't voluntary at all.
If only I had more time.
Instead, I'd been gallivanting with a pretty girl. Letting my guard down. Letting myself pretend I could have something normal.
How could I have been so fucking stupid?
Micah had warned me. Given me the resources I needed. And I'd wasted time on dinner and photography and kisses that made my chest ache.
I opened my mouth to ask what came next, but before I could speak, a heavy engine revved at the corner.
Both of us turned.
A black car barreled down the street, headlights cutting through the dark, moving fast—too fast.
Merrick's eyes flicked from the car to me and back again.
We both jumped back just as the car skidded to a stop, tires screeching, the back door on my side popping open.
Through a slit in the driver's window, I saw him.
Ellsworth.
Good old trusty former SAS butler Ellsworth.
"Get in, sir!" he barked.
I didn't hesitate.
I dove into the back seat, and Ellsworth didn't waste time. The car lurched forward, engine roaring, and I heard the sharp crack of gunfire behind us.
Bullets pinged off the armored body of the car—dull thuds that would have been fatal in any other vehicle.
We rocketed down the narrow street, Ellsworth handling the car like he was threading a needle at ninety miles an hour. Pedestrians dove out of the way. A parked scooter went flying.
We took the first turn hard, tires squealing. Then the second. Then a third.
Only after we'd put several blocks between us and Merrick did Ellsworth slow to a non-breakneck speed.
The silence in the car felt deafening after the chaos.
I sat back, breathing hard, adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
Ellsworth glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his expression calm, almost serene.
"How was dinner, sir?" he asked, his British accent as casual as if he'd just asked about the weather.
I stared at him for a beat.
