“It’s teeming at this time of night,” I say, incredulous. “No one comes for screams? Gunshots?”
Alex pauses, turning to look at me, face unreadable, eyes hard. “Screams?”
“Uh…” Probably a bad time to mention that. “Gunshots?”
“No one comes for gunshots.” He doesn’t blink. “Screams?”
“Yes, screams.” I’m defensive now. “It fucking hurt, okay? You try having fifty volts shoved through a wet towel over your head.” I shudder at the memory, all my aches returning. It’s no wonder I’m fragile. Twelve hours immobile, shock torture, dehydration. “And I’m dying of thirst.”
Alex tightens his jaw, and I swear I hear teeth grinding. “I’m going to…kill him slowly.”
“No, you’re going to get us out of here.” I step forward, into his space, and press my hand to hischest, over his heart. “Focus, Alex.Ineed you.”
He blinks, eyes clearing, face relaxing. Then he nods. “Right.”
And my heart squeezes. I wasn’t even sure that would work, let alone be so effective. But he’s just confirmed what I could only dream of: I matter to him. More than revenge, more than possession. He doesn’t just want me, hevaluesme.
Wanting and valuing are a big step forward. Massive.
Maybe there’s even love there, too, but this is Alex. I won’t expect miracles.
And I hope to hell he doesn’t have to kill someone every time he says it. Valentine’s would get awkward every year.
He cracks the main door and peers out. The noise of people comes through clearly, this part of Brooklyn a mingling of food joints and artists’ shops.
“Okay, we’re good.” He tucks the gun back into the waistband of his pants, checking his suit jacket covers it. “Let’s go. Crowds mean safety.”
I’m not sure how true that is if Van Wyk is here and sees us, but I’m desperate to put this place behind me.
Alex opens the door. His arm slides around my waist, which I’m grateful for, and we walk into the street. There are fewer people around than I expected, just groups here and there. We’re farther away from the trendy areas, down a side street. Alex sets a pace I can’t keep up with, and I stumble.
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he says, his arm tightening. “Take your time.”
I’ve been running on adrenaline ever since Alex arrived, and it’s abandoned me now. My body’s failing, muscles trembling, nausea returning. I don’t worry about throwing up—there’s nothing left—but passing out? That’s another question altogether.
Each pace takes effort. My chafed ankles are sore in my boots, and I cling to the stinging pain. It helps, fighting the throb in my head.
“How far?” I grunt.
“A block. I didn’t want to risk parking too close.”
I can manage a block.
It’s still the longest damn walk I’ve ever had, and when we finally reach Alex’s car, I collapse against the side of it. He takes my weight, opens the passenger door, and helps me in.
The seat is the most comfortable I’ve been in my life.
Alex strides around the front of the car, and I watch him move in admiration. He’s like a panther… a predator of some sort anyway… graceful, controlled, like he could snap and kill at a moment’s notice.
That is not a comforting thought.
Except it is. Hehassnapped. Hehaskilled. But he’s done itfor me.
And I’m in his car, safe. We can go home, and be safe.
Except they know where he lives. Maybe get a hotel and be safer.
