With every reason I tick off, I feel worse. The past three years have been one bad decision after another, and now I’m snowed in with a man who hates me.
No more crying. Certainly not in front of Wyatt. He may think he has some social skills, but he’s wrong. Or he just doesn’t care to use them. I’m not sure which is worse.
I’m so tired of feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. Of second guessing everything. Of being afraid. I used to think I was strong. Independent. Able to take care of myself. Until Simon.
Now the idea makes me laugh. I didn’t stand a chance against a master manipulator with a plan. Simon turned breaking a person down into an art form, and by the time I realized what he was doing, I was trapped. No way out. Cut off from the world. My friends. My whole life.
The sizzle of the steak in the pan helps distract me. As does the scent. My stomach growls and twists in on itself. I’d offer to help if I thought I could stand for more than a few minutes at a time.
Who am I kidding? That would involve talking to Wyatt again. Not going there until I have to.
Peering out the window, I’m shocked at how utterly dark it is outside. No street lights. No city glow. The glass is pitch black. I can’t even see the snow. Are Simon’s men looking for me? Or do they think I died in the crash? I reach down and feel for the memory card taped to my skin. Simon owns the police in Salt Lake City. The FBI agents too. Seattle was the closest big city that felt safe. But what if I was wrong? What if I get there—somehow—and he finds me anyway?
“Dinner,” Wyatt announces, breaking through the thoughts racing around in my head. “What do you want with it? Only three choices, really. Water, coffee, and bourbon.”
“I haven’t had a drink in three years. Bourbon would probably knock me right out.” The number of things I’ve missed could fill a football field, and I brace my hand on the back of the couch as the weight of it all slams into me. “Water’s fine.”
After a beat, Wyatt frowns, but fills two glasses from the tap and sets them on a small dining table in the corner of the main room. Food has never smelled so good. Not since breakfast, anyway.
I suppose when you spend three years eating all the foods you hate—tofu, vegetables with every ounce of flavor boiled out of them, and wheatgrass—anything might smell and taste amazing.
Wyatt reaches for my arm when a wave of dizziness hits me steps from the table, but I wave him off and lean against the wall until it passes. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are.” He checks my forehead, and some of the worry lines etched around his lips ease. “Your fever hasn’t come back, but fuck, Hope. You almost bled out twenty-four hours ago. Let me help you.”
“You’ve made it very clear you’d rather not talk or interact beyond the minimum. I’m trying to respect that.” Despite my words, I let him help me to the hard wooden chair. “I just need rest. And food. I’ll be fine in the morning.”
He snorts, but doesn’t argue, and when he sets a plate twice the size of my head in front of me, my mouth waters.
“I didn’t ask. Is medium rare okay? I can let it cook another few minutes...”
“And ruin what looks to be a perfect cut of meat? Don’t you dare.” The first bite is so good, I moan, and the corners of Wyatt’s mouth twitch. I used to dream of meals like this. The first few months, all I wanted was a hamburger. French fries. After a year, I would have killed for a piece of toast with butter. Carbs. Sugar. Caffeine.
We eat in silence for several minutes until Wyatt clears his throat. “Hope? Don’t ever apologize to me like you did earlier. I was the asshole. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Instinctively, my shoulders curve inward, and I hold my breath. In my world, men don’t admit they screwed up without an ulterior motive, and whenever Simon apologized, it was usually followed by, “But I have to punish you now.”
“Hope?” Wyatt asks, reaching across the table to skim his rough fingers over the back of my hand. “You were fine, and now you’re not. Who is he and what did he do to you? Because once this snow clears, I’m gonna hunt him down and beat the ever-loving fuck out of him.”
“No! You can’t!” My fork clatters to the plate, bounces, and ends up on the floor, where Murphy pounces on it like it’s prey.
“Dammit, Murph. You’ll get your own bowl when we’re done. Sit and hold.”
The dog immediately returns to his place by Wyatt’s chair, drops down to his haunches, and does his best impression of a statue.
After he passes me a clean fork, Wyatt rests his hands on his thighs and pins me with an unwavering stare.
“I’m a grown-ass man, Hope. Pretty sure I’m still able to throw a punch. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t teach that asshole a goddamn lesson.”
“Because he’ll kill me. And you.” The idea of putting Wyatt in danger—any more than I already have—leaves my stomach in knots, and I push the plate away.
He slides it back in front of me, the defiance in his eyes sending my gaze to my hands clasped in my lap. “I’m damn hard to kill, darlin’.”
“Not for him!” I cry. My panic spills over until my wheezing breaths catch in my chest and I brace both hands on the table. Murphy rests his head on my thigh. The warmth and weight are enough to pull me back from the brink, but just barely. It takes Wyatt’s hand on the back of my neck and several minutes before I can form even a single word.
Swallowing hard, I meet his gaze. “Simon Arrens is the leader of the biggest human trafficking operation in the western United States. Thousands of barely legal men and women are brought in over the Mexican and Canadian borders every year, all put to work for him in one brothel or another. He owns more than a hundred of them. There are dozens in each of the major cities, and he gets away with it because he has police and FBI on his payroll. If he ever finds me…” I can’t go on. I don’t want to think about what he’ll do.
Wyatt’s chair tips over. The bang as it hits the floor makes me jump. “Hope. Were you...?” His voice fades, and Murphy paces between the two of us, nosing my hand then Wyatt’s hip.
