His hand sliding up my leg. His stubble grazing the back of my neck. His breath hot in my ear, my aching ear. His fingers slowly undoing the zip of my dress, hands rummaging to cup my breasts in those large, callused, workingmen hands.
And what happens when he sees the scars carved into your back?
Shame hits with the force of a slap. The last of the adrenaline from his colleague’s assault on me drains away, leaving my shoulders slumping.
Instead of running, I drop my shoes to the ground and step back into them. I limp across the rough ground to the car and clamber awkwardly inside, keeping my face turned away, my forearm aching twice as much as before.
Disappointment fills the cab of the jeep, thick and stifling. I sense the expectation of his gaze on me, but I don’t meet it, don’t turn to face him.
“There’s a disused farmhouse farther along this road,” he tells me after a minute of silence, though I pointedly haven’t asked him what’s happening. “We’ll camp out there for the night.”
I nod, resting my forehead against the grimy window and closing my eyes. Images of Joshua flood in to fill the blank space, a montage of his life played out in stills from the family album.
Before I know it, tears cascade down my face. I try to stop them, biting the inside of my cheek hard as a distraction, but they continue. The sobs rock me enough that I wrap my arms around my torso to stifle the motion. I barely notice the jeep coming to a stop again. Not until Malakai puts a hand on my arm.
I open my mouth to explain but he gets there first, making the connection without my input.
“Nobody’s going to hurt him. Not yet.”
There’s relief at his easy understanding, a slight shock that he’s so well attuned. But it still takes all my energy to meet his gaze. “You don’t know that.”
He shrugs. The simple gesture of someone who doesn’t have the most important person in their life under a death threat.
“The prison will be on lockdown. Even when that lifts, your son is now the most popular inmate in there. No one would dare attack him while the media circus is playing out. Not without bringing a world of unwanted scrutiny their way.”
“Right.” My voice is flat as I recite back my interpretation. “So what you’re saying is that I should continue to be a good little hostage because it’s only the intense media interest that’s keeping my son alive. Is that about right?”
“That’s an accurate summary.”
“There’ll be far more media attention if I escape. The press love a good rescue story.”
“Maybe.” He shoots me an amused smile. “But to escape, you’ll have to run.”
His gaze is deliberate, piercing. A shiver travels at lightning speed across my shoulders until I drop my eyes to my lap.
Malakai turns back to the road, cutting off the marked track to drive straight into the forest, navigating around trees until we reach a narrow river, then turning to follow its course until I can see a farmhouse in the distance.
“I need to get farther north. Keeping to back roads and making at least one more change of vehicle will take that from a seven-hour drive up to two or three days.”
He pulls in behind the old wooden house, steering until the bumper kisses against a stack of firewood next to the barn before cutting the engine.
When he turns to face me, his massive shoulders block out the entire driver’s side window. He leans his long arm along the back of the bench seat, ocean eyes assessing me as I cower against my door.
“There are calls I can make. Mates I can talk to who’ll watch out for your son. Not just for now, for the length of his stay.”
I listen more to the threat behind the words than to what he actually says. Because what his posture tells me is that the reverse is equally true. He could make a call and end my son’s life just as easily as he could protect it.
“My gang holds a lot more sway inside than the Rangers ever could. If you do what I say and give me what I want, I’ll make sure he’s safe.”
“And what if you get caught again?” The words slip out of me in a panicked rush. “What happens if I do everything you say but the police still catch you?”
Because they will. There’s no doubt in my mind.
His prison break has only lasted this long because of good luck and one very dead friend.
Malakai gives a small, confused frown before sunshine bursts across his face again. “Oh, as soon as you tried to ram the prison van, I’ve been fully expecting to get caught at the end of this. My chance for real freedom is gone now.”
I’m astonished at how he takes it in his stride, how his good humour bounces to the surface. My emotions seesaw from thinking of him as an enemy, to a friend, when he’s probably neither. A man I feel in synch with but who also casually pulled a gun on me, could pull it again right now.
