“Sit. On the bed. Next to the headboard.”
“Why? Is this some BDSM shit? Because if so, we need a safe word. I vote for ‘let me go.’”
Ronan cracks a brief smile. “That’s more than one word.”
“Fine. What about ‘beer’? I didn’t lie earlier. Iamthirsty.”
With an arched brow, he waits for me to sit, but I’m not about to give in that easily. He reaches for my hands, and I take a step back. “I’ll not ask you again.”
“No? I don’t think you’re going to shoot me in your own apartment. Not a great way to lie low.” Tugging at the scarf, I try to work my hands free, but the man ties effective knots, I’ll give him that.
With a low, frustrated growl, he moves so quickly, I don’t have a chance to react before he grabs my wrists and tugs me against him. “You said you left the comic book shop with nothin’. Do you want someoneelsefindin’ your stuff?”
“Iwantto retrieve my own stuff. If you let me go, you’ll never see me again. Tell your boss you couldn’t find me. Hell, I’ll even help you save face and make it look like I’m in Paris or London.” We’re close enough his scent winds around me, and I splay my fingers over his broad chest.
“Runnin’ won’t help you clear your name.” His voice softens, as does his gaze. “I’ll help you, Zephyr. But I don’t trust you yet, and I can’t have you disappearin’ on me. The man you supposedly killed? My boss knows his brother. This is personal for Dax, and if I don’t bring you in, he’ll send someone else after you. Someone better than me. Or worse. He’ll sendeveryoneelse after you.”
“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Warning bells should be going off in my head, but it’s almost…silent in there as I sink down onto the soft mattress.
Ronan deftly loosens the scarf. “One hand on either side of the headboard post. Please.”
The “please” surprises me, and I slide one of my hands around the back of the wrought iron post. The flexi-cuffs tighten, tethering me to Ronan’s bed, and he grabs a second pillow from the far side and wedges it behind my back.
“Are you comfortable enough?” he asks, taking a step back. “Do you want a blanket? A beer? Tea?”
“Why do you care?” The moment the words escape, I regret them. He’s beingnice. Solicitous, even. For someone who keeps tying me up.
“Because I’m not a complete arse?”
With a sigh, I swallow the urge to respond with an unhealthy dose of sarcasm. “A cup of tea would be amazing. With milk if you have it. I really wanted that one I dropped before you started chasing me.”
He nods, heads out of the room, and busies himself in the kitchen for a few minutes. Once he leaves, I’ll be out of these cuffs in no time, but for now, I relax against the fluffy pillows. My arms ache from being bound in various ways for the past hour, but I’m warm and dry. More importantly, François has no idea where I am. For that alone, I’m grateful.
When Ronan returns with a steaming mug and a shot glass of amber liquid, I arch my brows in question.
“If I’d been soaked to the skin most of the night, I’d want a dram of whiskey in my tea.”
“Whoareyou?” I ask. “And that’s a yes, by the way.”
He pours the whiskey into the mug and sets it down within my very limited reach. Drinking will be awkward as hell, but manageable. “This place is virtually soundproof, the door’s reinforced, and onlyIcan open it. You’ll be safe here, and I’ll be back in under an hour.”
He’s gone without another word, and I pick up the tea. Freeing myself should be my number one priority. But instead, I sip what tastes like Irish Gold and wonder why Ronan would even consider taking a chance on me.
Chapter Seven
Ronan
Both the frontand back doors of the abandoned comic book shop are alarmed and appear undisturbed. How the hell did Zephyr get in? Assuming she hasn’t vanished by the time I get home, I’ll have to ask her.
Leaving her was a stupid idea, but it’s not like I could throw her in the trunk of my car while I retrieved her stuff, and sure as shit she’s not one to sit quietly in the front seat.
With a piece of foil between the contacts—part of my standard kit—I disable the alarm on the back door and then pick the lock. Shining my flashlight around the bottom floor, I marvel at the sheer amount of inventory left behind. Comics, records, even blind box collectables.
No sign of Zephyr’s stuff, though several of the boxes have been rifled through. A set of stairs lead to the second floor, and when I turn the corner, I find everything. An inflatable mattress and sleeping bag, a laptop—lid open, but screen locked—and a backpack. Next to the computer, a half-eaten granola bar.
“I haven’t had anything to eat or drink in six hours other than a single bite of a granola bar.”
Dammit. I shouldn’t care. Except I don’t believe she chose this life. Always on the run. Squatting in abandoned buildings. Living off granola bars and jerky.
