Turning back time?
Following Gable regardless?
I go to take a step forward, eager to lie down and get this over with, when Gable speaks. “You’d better be wearing shoes.”
I pause, looking down at my socked feet. “No. My feet get hot when I’m nervous. They swell up and get all hobbit like. Why?”
Gable gapes at me. “Why did Asher like you?” I wonder if murder really is that terrible a crime. Killing Gable seems like a lovely idea right about now. He sits up. “Have you seen this fucking floor? People have probably pissed, vomited, and died on it.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” I go to move again, and he holds up a hand.
“If your foot touches that fucking carpet, you are not sharing a bed with me.”
I blink. “Are you being serious?”
“Am I ever anything but?”
Oh, fuck this. “Get over yourself.”
I step forward and let out an almighty squeal as Gable dashes from the bed and seamlessly lifts me and throws me over his shoulder. I immediately bust out laughing, the sound restricted by his shoulder in my stomach.
“You cannot be serious, Gable!” I cackle as he walks us over to the bed and drops me onto it. I bounce, which is surprising given the probable age of the mattress. “You really don’t like dirt, huh?”
“It’s easy to stay clean,” he says, going to the bathroom. He returns, and to my absolute horror, drops to a knee andstarts putting my shoes onto my feet. I try to snatch my leg back, but he holds onto my ankle. “What are you doing!”
“Dressing you, because you’re a child,” he says, focusing on his task until I stop struggling. “One month. That’s all it is.” He starts on my other foot, and I press my lips together to stifle a laugh. “All I need to do is put up with you for one month, then I’m free.”
“But this will always haunt you,” I say, grinning as he meets my eye. “The day you dressed Ella Gibson.”
He stands and removes the space between us. I lean back as he hovers over me, and he presses his hands into the mattress either side of my hips. My eyes widen, and we’re a hair’s breath apart, so close that I can finally discern between the dark brown of his iris and his pitch-black pupil. His eyes are startlingly beautiful, with dark, thick lashes, and a sharpness that I imagine only a killer would have or need. As we share breath, I feel very much like prey.
“I’ll replace that memory with the day I kill Ella Gibson,” he says quietly. “How does that sound?”
I swallow. “Right now? Like heaven.”
A low, rumbling growl from behind me has me turning to look at Motor.
“Showtime,” Gable says, and we lock eyes. He reaches into the back of his jeans and hands me a gun, flicking off the safety. “Have you fired a gun before?” I nod quickly, ignoring the violent hammering of my heart. “Good. Whatever you do, don’t shoot me. Lie down. Back to the door.”
Trembling, I do as he says. On my side, I stare at the peeling wallpaper on the far side of the room. With the gun grasped to my chest, I close my eyes and breathe in and out, deep, even, counting.
“Motor,” Gable whispers. “On the bed.”
The dog hops up behind me.
Gable lies down on the floor beside the bed, in front of me. His gun rests casually by his side, and he isn’t counting or breathing deeply. He’s totally calm, focused.
A killer ready to kill.
I can’t help but reach my hand out. His eyes meet mine, and he doesn’t hesitate before lacing our fingers together, squeezing gently. It helps my trembling, and we keep our eyes locked as metal scrapes against metal—the lock being disabled.
Gable releases me, and a flurry of thoughts assault me.
What if this person shoots me from the door? What if it isn’t a killer at all but an innocent person getting the wrong room?
What if Gable dies? What if Motor dies?
What if I lose them, too?
