He won’t let me live...
I clenched my jaw. “What’s the surprise?”
I already know.
Pain and then death.
Cut wasn’t overly original.
Marquise clenched his fists, showing scabbed knuckles and ropy forearms. “You’ll see.”
Chapter Eighteen
Nila
CUT GRIPPED MY unbroken arm tighter, hauling me faster through the airport.
He’d manhandled me and corralled me ever since we’d left Jethro in the mine and flew by Jeep to a small doctor’s surgery on the outskirts of Gaborone.
While the African doctor nodded and smiled and arranged my arm for x-rays, Cut had washed his face and changed his clothes, discarding the dirt-smudged jeans and white shirt in favour of black slacks and shirt.
The doctor didn’t remove my cast, and he didn’t show me the x-rays once the decrepit machine had whirred and snapped grainy pictures of what Cut had done to me.
Once the large black and white images were tucked safely into his briefcase, Cut allowed me five minutes to wash as best I could in the surgery’s small bathroom. The blood from Daniel and the car accident siphoned down the plug hole, revealing scratches and bruises in their colourful glory.
I had no makeup to cover the marks and no choice but to change into whatever clothing Cut had grabbed from my suitcase on the way out fromAlmasi Kipanga.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t selected any of the clothing I’d artistically amended, leaving me without scalpels or knitting needles, leaving me vulnerable.
The one good thing about the doctor’s surgery was the sweet-eyed man gave me a homemade honey muesli bar—either noticing the way I ogled his sandwich sitting on his desk as he x-rayed me or the wobbles of weakness as Cut dragged me outside.
I didn’t think much of his practice, considering he didn’t check if my arm was set correctly, or there was nothing majorly damaged inside, but I inhaled the food offering before Cut could snatch it away.
With Cut’s timeline, he envisioned my head in a basket within a few days. Who cared if my arm was set wrong? It wouldn’t be needed much longer.
That’s what you fear.
But it isn’t what will happen.
I curled my fingers, testing the pain level of the break. My grip was weak, and it burned to move, but I still had mobility. My fingers still worked, which I was thankful for. I couldn’t stomach the thought of never being able to sew again or hold intricate needles and lace.
Cut had stolen so much—he couldn’t steal my entire livelihood and skill,too.
“Hurry up.” Cut pulled harder.
I staggered beside him, breathing hard as every footstep jarred my aching arm. The pain resonated beneath muscle and skin, a hot discomfort stripping me of energy.
The moment we’d arrived at the airport, Cut had abandoned the Jeep in a long-term car park and only bothered to carry his briefcase. At the time, I wondered if we’d be questioned for suspicious behaviour travelling long-haul with no luggage. But I’d rolled my eyes and hid my snort.
This was Cut Hawk.
This part of Africabelongedto him—no doubt the airport security would belong to him, too.
“For God’s sake, Weaver.” Cut slowed, forcing my half-trotting, half-lagging footsteps to fall in line with his. “We’ll miss the plane.”
Fresh throbs brought scratchy tears to my eyes.
“I want to miss the plane. I want to go back for Jethro.”
