“Panties too, I think. Is that all right?”
I eye his knife, momentarily uneasy. But I trust him to be careful, and that’s new too. “Don’t pretend it’snot a fantasy you’ve had.”
He blinks, thrown. Then laughs, a sound of genuine amusement. “No pretense here,” he says, pulling the side of my panties away from my skin and slicing through the material, repeating it on the other side. “Just not my venue of choice. Let’s do this again, another time.”
I’m too numb to react to that, but I won’t forget it. I’m taking it as a promise.
The knife gets tossed onto the table, and he peels the scraps of my clothing away. Then he picks me up bodily, hands around my waist, helping me to my feet and taking most of my weight. He half carries me to the table, perching me on it, collects the damp cloth he used to wipe down the knife, and begins to wipemedown, instead.
I shiver. Not from the wet fabric, but from the intimacy and care of it.
“Sorry it’s cold,” he says, misinterpreting my reaction. He runs the rag across my thighs, my stomach, one arm. Everywhere my own vomit has clung to my skin.
“Hurry, please.” Even though part of me doesn’t want him to stop. “Van Wyk…”
“If he comes, we’ll hear him. I have the pistol.”
It’s a small comfort, but I don’t want Alex in a fight. He closes deals, he doesn’t carry guns. I do my best to keep still, making it easier for him, and he finishes a moment later. The knife gets a last wipe down, then he swaps rag and blade for my jeans and sweater, dressing me like I’m his doll.
I’m not a doll. Iamhis.
“Thank you for coming for me.” Why hadn’t I said anything before now? I owe him my life.
He pauses in the act of tugging my jeans up my legs, eyes finding mine. “I’ll always come for you. Just like you’d always come for me.”
I would, it’s true. Even if I was hiding from him, I’d return if he needed me.
Damn it, I was never able to escape this man, and I didn’t even know.
But now I don’t want to. Not anymore.
He tugs my jeans up with a grin. “You’ll always come for me.”
The tone of his voice changes the meaning, and my cheeks flush red.
My sweater goes on next, then Alex kneels at my feet and slides my boots on. He looks up at me. “All done. Can you walk?”
“I can stagger.” Probably. “Consider me motivated.”
He stands, pulling the gun from his waistband. “Then let’s go.”
I discover I was right as we leave: it’s both a warehouse and a basement. The stairs nearly finish me, my legs shaking with the effort, but Alex’s hand is at my back. When we find windows, it’s dark outside.
“What time is it?”
“About ten,” he says, not bothering to check his watch, the gun held in a two-handed grip and his eyes checking everywhere. “We’re going to be late.”
“For what?”
He throws a look I now recognize as guilt. “Let’s discuss that when we’re out.”
“Okay…” Just so long as we’re not going to a fucking dance.
The smell of the harbor hits when we near the doors, salt water, diesel, and musty damp. The noise of people comes from beyond, a general hubbub and the occasional loud shout or laugh.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Red Hook.” Alex’s voice is quiet, each pace he takes careful, his feet making no sound. We’re twenty feet from the main door, and it’s closed.
