“Stop it.” I step toward him. “I don’t want to leave.”
“You have to.”
“But he’ll kill you next,” I choke out. “You didn’t deliver what he asked for, which means he’ll hurt you.”
“He’ll hurt you first. You wanted me to want you so much that I can’t breathe?” He drags his thumb up and strokes my flesh, swiping an errant tear where it spills from my eye. “Nova Nichols. You took my breath away the first time I saw you. I promise, from now until my dying breath, I’ll stand between you and Richard Aster.”
He leans in and lays one last kiss on my lips, my tears mingling on our tongues and his choppy exhale filling my lungs. Then he pulls back with a violent, jerky movement and shoves me into the driver’s seat, slamming the door so hard the sound echoes into the night.
“Now leave. I’ll be standing right here.” He points toward my house. “I’ll be watching. I expect to see your headlights in your driveway one minute from now, and pulling out again in ten. Drive until you’re afraid you’ll fall asleep, then stop for coffee and drive even further after that.”
“Lincoln—”
“I love you.” He reaches through the window and takes my keys, stabbing one into the ignition barrel and starting the engine with a roar. Pulling back, he cups my cheek, his eyes glittering with a bone-deep ache. “I know it might not feel like it, and I know I’ve lied, but I love you, Nova. It would bring me great joy to know you’re out there somewhere, living in safety and hating me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Adrenaline floods my veins and leaves my hands shaking. “Even though I should, I don’t.”
“I hope you learn to.” Stepping back, he releases me and folds his arms across his still-bare chest. “Love and hate matter to me. Indifference will break my heart.”
“I’m not indifferent either.” A desperate sob tears along my throat. “It’s not hate, and it’s not indifference.”
His eyes soften, his lips parting as he receives my words and processes them. Translates. Then smiles. “Good. Now go.” He turns his back, dismissing me as I shift the truck into reverse and clamp my lips shut. My lungs seize, and the pain leaves me gasping for air. Torrents of tears fall from my eyes while Ry’s chain hangs heavily, ominously, around my neck.
But another name rings in the back of my mind.
Finally, the identity of the man who hurt my family.
Richard Aster.
I pull out of Lincoln’s driveway, the truck bouncing and grating over the potholes and poorly kept road. Less than a minute later, I turn into my yard and kill the engine. Opening the door, I step down onto loose gravel in my bare feet. I grab my keys but leave my purse in the cab. Blinded by tears, I dash onto my porch and unlock the front door, then step into darkness and flick the light on.
But instead of my warm, cozy home, I’m met with chaos. My couch is flipped on its back, and my television lies tossed on the floor. Drawers hang open, and books splay across the shelves.
Adrenaline spikes in my blood like nitrous oxide in a car’s souped-up engine, my brain processing the scene in front of me legions faster than it did when an SUV barreled straight for us.I turn to flee, knowing Aster has already sent his reinforcements, but a beefy hand wraps around and claps over my mouth, containing my scream.
“Shhh…” A dark, dangerous voice vibrates beside my ear. “We don’t want to alert the neighbors, do we?”
21
LINCOLN
RICHARD, WHO?
Follow her!
Drag her into her truck and put her back on the road.
For every second she’s still in this godforsaken town, she’s at risk. So I stride into the hall, her perfume acting like a siren’s call that sets my blood on fire. Her scent—ourscent—as I barge into my room, is almost enough to put me on my ass. My messy sheets are a cruel, welcoming invitation.Lie down and remember how it felt to have her. Bury your face in her pillow and smother yourself, because dying with her in your lungs is a damn good way to go.
I want to travel back an hour and change everything. Not tell her who I am. Not break her heart and shatter her trust. If I could go back, I might keep the secret a little longer.
If I could go back an entire week, I would sweep her up and get her out of town. Even if she kicked and screamed the whole way. Even if she fought every touch and denied every word Ispoke. Even if it meant forfeiting what little time we’ve had to simplybe. If it meant keeping her safe, it’s what I would do.
Fury and fear battle in my veins, warring with each other for dominance as I stalk toward my closet and snatch out a shirt, and after it, a coat—because I’m probably not coming back tonight.
Or possibly ever.
I rip the shirt over my head and walk to the drawers beside the bed. Not the one she already searched, but theother. The one that, if she had, would have sent our evening spiraling in an entirely different direction. I yank it open and pull out my gun. Then a second. I grab shoes and socks, then sit on my bed to put them on. Sweeping up the knife she already discovered, I tuck it under my jeans at my ankle. I check my ammo and slip as much into my pockets as I can fit. Then, chambering a round, I stand and slide one gun into the back of my jeans, and the other into the thigh holster I pull from the drawer.
