Ella
His shoes clicked against the floor as he reached the stairs. I followed a step behind, but my mind was still trapped in that horrible grey room. My father’s fingers had been bandaged, his chest rising and falling with each breath.
I’d almost let him die.
Almost.
In the end, I hadn’t had the stomach for it.
My hands trembled at the sight of the tattooed man. Then there was the fake policeman in the suit.
I was such a fool.
Again.
We reached the car, and I walked around to the passenger side without being told. The lights flashed as I pulled the handle and climbed inside.
Everything I’d worked for—every effort I’d made to get where I was—felt erased. It always came back to one man.
My father.
The car pulled away. I stared out the window as the city slid past.
This was the last time I would ever bail him out.
The last time I would see him again.
I owed him nothing.
I closed my eyes, but all I could see were the dark-haired woman’s ruined eyes. Her throat.
The tears came—steady, certain.
Silent.
The man beside me lived by a different set of rules. My tears meant nothing to him.
Why was it always men?
“My name is Rowan Blackwood.”
I didn’t respond.
“As long as you obey,” he continued calmly,“no real harm will come to you.”
My eyes snapped open, but my body stayed frozen.
No real harm could mean anything.
I’d never heard of him. Never seen him. Our paths should never have crossed.
No wonder the tattooed man had appeared at the hospital. It had been intimidation.
That’s what people like this did. I’d only ever seen it in films.
I shivered.
This was real.
