For the first time, something shifts in his face. Not softness. Not warmth. Respect, maybe. “Fine,” he says. “We’re not staying in South Carolina. We move before whoever’s watching realizes you’ve been extracted. We drive north, switch vehicles twice. Then we fly out from a smaller strip. Final location is off-grid.”
“Off-grid like no Wi-Fi off-grid?” I ask, already horrified.
“Off-grid like nobody finds you.”
“I have a job,” I say. “Deadlines. Editors. A cat sitter who’s going to steal my furniture if I don’t respond.”
He gives me a look. “You have a target on your back.”
“And you have the bedside manner of a door,” I say.
He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s counting to ten. Then he looks at me again. “Get in the car, Rowan.”
I hold his gaze for one more heartbeat, because I refuse to be intimidated by cheekbones and tactical competence. Then I climb in. Because I’m not stupid.
Sin slides in after me, and the door shuts with a heavy thunk that makes my chest tighten. The driver pulls out smoothly, tires crunching over gravel.
I glance through the tinted window at the airstrip shrinking behind us. This is happening. I’m really being kidnapped by my mother’s hired weapon.
Sin leans back, arms braced casually on his thighs, posture loose but alert. He’s watching the mirrors. Watching the road.Watching me, intermittently, like I’m an unpredictable animal that might bite.
I clear my throat. “So.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’m Rowan,” I say. “In case you missed it in the whole dramatic airstrip introduction.”
His eyes flick to mine. “I didn’t miss it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Great. You’re Sin, like a comic book villain. Do you also have a cape?”
He exhales, the closest thing to a laugh I’ve gotten so far. “You’re trying too hard.”
“I’m trying exactly hard enough to not freak out,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
His gaze lingers on me, and his voice drops. “You scared?”
I open my mouth to deny it. But last night flashes through my head. The impact. The skid. The moment my car fishtailed and my heart tried to climb out of my throat. I swallow. “I’m irritated.”
His mouth curves. “That wasn’t the question.”
I glare at him. “I’m fine.”
“Lie.”
I gasp, offended. “Excuse you.”
“You’re brave,” he says, like it costs him nothing to admit it. “But you’re not fine.”
My stomach flips in an annoying little swoop. I look away, pretending the view out the window is fascinating. It’s South Carolina scrub and highway and the kind of flat horizon that makes you feel like you could run forever and still not escape your problems.
“You don’t know me,” I say quietly.
“I know enough,” he replies. “You didn’t cancel your life after the first threat. You kept digging. You kept writing. That’s not reckless. That’s conviction.”
I glance back at him.
His face is unreadable, but his eyes are steady. And suddenly, I’m not just irritated. I’m… aware. Of him. Of the space between us. Of the fact that he’s the only reason I’m not still standing on that airstrip like a neon sign that saysPlease Murder Me.
