“What does it matter?” She explodes into motion, the black dress swirling as she paces. “Maybe I should get kidnapped every week. Because nothing I’ve done the past fifteen years seems to matter. I live in a shithole. I’ve got one hundred and twenty-nine bucks in my account, and half of that disappears today for my phone bill.” She rounds on me with burning eyes. “The phone you stole.”
She’s not wrong. I seized her phone, her freedom, her stability, and whatever fragile structure she’d managed to build for herself.
“I eat grapefruit for dinner. Not even a whole one! Only half. With a lot of water. Just once I’d like to afford a decent fucking meal. Warm bread with butter. Halibut with vegetables. Real, fresh vegetables!”
She glares at me like I’m personally responsible for every halibut that never landed on her plate. Then she spins away, keeping that narrow strip of carpet between us, always moving, always measuring the distance.
Prey fighting with every last ounce of energy she has left.
That’s the thing people always get wrong about animals. Carnivores attack for sustenance, always ensuring the chase is worth the effort. Prey animals lash out if cornered, desperateand reckless in the face of either death or a fate even worse than death.
“You don’t get it!” Her hands slash the air, punching and slicing. “Whatever you want, that Safety-237, I have no idea what you’re talking about! I don’t want anything to do with your missions or your damn quests.”
I stand silent, wondering if this is finally the real Jordan. The one with nothing left to lose. So far removed from the spiritual guide in floaty robes, so far from the frightened captive, even further from the flawless socialite who just outmaneuvered a detective.
“But none of that matters.” She stumbles to a halt, all the fire draining out in a rush, leaving her limp and pale. “Maybe nothing matters. Maybe that’s why I can’t attract anything but killers and phone bills. Maybe it’s all just a lie.”
She hovers in the dead center of the room, her face shifting. The mask falters and caves in, defeat sinking into her bones.
I hate that expression.
She should be defiant. Full of spirit and life and energy. Not the beginnings of an empty shell.
I clench my hand at my side to prevent myself from reaching out to her.
She’s not done, though. “Thanks for helping me see it.” She spins, and the glare she gives me is pure challenge. Direct, naked, and almost savage. “So go ahead. Shoot me. Break my fingers. Whatever guys like you do.”
She squeezes her eyes shut and thrusts out one hand, fingers spread and trembling between us, offered up like a dare. Or a sacrifice.
Maybe both.
I gape at her hand. The hand of a woman who eats grapefruit for dinner but dreams of halibut. Whose life savings total onehundred and twenty-nine dollars. Who could have walked away but didn’t.
Jordan stays still, offering pain as if it’s the only thing people trade in, like it’s the only currency she has left.
I understand. I taught her that lesson myself.
The expectation of violence bounces off something inside me.
But I don’t want to hurt this woman who just torched her own safety to cover for me.
I’m not soft. Not incapable.
I just…don’t want to.
Her quivering hand still floats between us as she waits for what always comes next.
I have no idea what to do with her outstretched fingers. No idea what to do with her.
And that, more than anything else, scares the hell out of me.
Chapter 20
Jordan
My hand quivers. I can’t stop the tremors.
Kirill doesn’t bluff. I’ve seen what his fingers can do, how violence is as natural to him as breathing. The memory of his grip on my arm still lingers.
