I hesitate, just for a second. Then decide that modesty has no place here, only survival.
Bailey is already halfway into a black hoodie and cargo pants by the time I peel off my own shirt. Miller steps aside and deliberately turns his back, giving me a sliver of privacy while I strip out of the white Dollhouse loungewear. The fabric hits the floor like shed skin, and I quickly drag on the fresh clothes– a t-shirt, zip hoodie, stretchy leggings, socks, and a pair of battered sneakers. The simple act of pulling on real clothes feels surreal, like I’m reclaiming a life that was stolen from me.
Bailey finishes dressing and shoves our discarded Dollhouse uniforms into the bottom of the duffel before zipping it shut and slinging it over her shoulder.
“How are we doing on time?” she asks breathlessly.
Miller silently lifts his wrist, showing her his watch. The digital display counts down at just under two minutes.
Bailey’s eyes widen. “We gotta go,” she says, urgency tightening her voice.
Miller turns and pulls the door open, stepping through first before waving for us to follow. Bailey loops an arm through mine and steers me through the doorway and down a narrow concrete corridor. The air is cold and musty, the darkness broken up only by the pulsing red emergency lights. The alarm is more muffled in here, but it still echoes faintly through the concrete like a distant siren.
We round a bend and Miller yanks another door open, the three of us emerging into a parking garage. A black Jeep sits idling nearby, its headlights dark, engine rumbling low.
Bailey jogs straight for the passenger door and yanks it open, tossing the duffel into the footwell and sliding into the seat. Miller pulls open the back door, stepping aside as he gestures for me to climb in.
I hesitate.
The man behind the wheel cranes his neck, glancing back at me through the open door. He’s a stark contrast to Miller– lean instead of bulky, with shaggy blond hair falling into sharp green eyes and sun-bronzed skin that makes him look like he belongs on a surfboard rather than facilitating a prison break.
He flashes me an easy grin that’s all teeth, eyes gleaming mischievously. “Get in, girl,” he urges, inclining his chin. “You’re free.”
CHAPTER 7
AVA
My knuckles gowhite on the grab handle as the Jeep whips around a corner, the momentum sending me sliding across the back seat straight into Miller. The guy’s built like a cinderblock, but the collision does more damage to my dignity than my body. The driver lets out a bark of laughter as I scramble back to my side, wincing at the twinge of pain in my tattoo as I click my seatbelt into place. I’ve barely got it fastened before he guns the engine again, tires squealing against concrete.
Somewhere behind us, alarms are still wailing, the image of the Dollhouse strobing with red emergency lights still burned into the back of my mind. But when the Jeep bursts out of the tunnel and into actual daylight, the shock of it is even more disorienting than being yanked through those darkened hallways like a ragdoll.
I squint hard, throwing a hand up to shield my face as the world explodes into blinding white. I’ve seen nothing but artificial light for the past week, and sunlight is a harsh shock to the system.
Bailey slides on a pair of aviator sunglasses like an action hero, then fishes a second pair from the glove box, twisting in her seat to look back at me.
“Here,” she chirps, offering them to me. “You’ll fry your retinas if you keep squinting like that.”
“Thanks,” I croak, taking them from her and sliding them onto my face.
The world instantly goes from nuclear to tolerable. The sudden relief is so intense I almost burst into tears, but instead I press my lips together tightly and stare out the window, grateful for something real to look at beyond it.
The city’s buzzing with life, filled with cars, buildings, pedestrians… a whole world continuing on like nothing happened. Like there’s not something foul lurking just beneath the surface. Miller sits rigidly beside me, one massive shoulder nearly brushing mine. His head turns slowly as he watches the road behind us, scanning the mirrors and passing cars like he’s expecting an ambush.
Something tells me he’d enjoy it. The man still hasn’t said a single word, but he’s emanating enough ‘I dare you’ energy that it’s clear this isn’t his first rodeo.
Bailey props an elbow on the center console and glances over her shoulder at me again, flashing a bright, easy smile.
“I’m sure you have a million questions.”
My brain is a choked-up traffic jam of trauma, adrenaline, and confusion, but I manage a tight nod.
She gestures to the guy behind the wheel. “This is our getaway driver, Keane.”
He grins at me through the rearview mirror, green eyes gleaming. “Hey, Ava. Sorry about the kidnapping. We usually bring zip ties and a blindfold to make it more dramatic, but we were on short notice.”
That should probably scare me, but honestly, it’s less offensive than most of what comes out of the Kings’ mouths on a daily basis.
“Don’t scare the poor girl,” Bailey admonishes, reaching across the console to grab for his hand. She laces her fingers with his, lifting their joined hands and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
