“I have no intention of killing you, Max, never have. Please don’t force my hand.” His chin lowers with his final statement, and he levels me with an intense stare, as if he’s truly pleading with me. It does something to soften my resolve. I want to believe him so badly.
“Can I get out of the room? I’m going crazy in here.”Please give me something to let me feel a little in control.
Winger steps back and to the side. My first step is tentative. I’m worried he’s going to slam the door in my face and laugh. When he just waits patiently for me, I continue toward him, crossing the threshold. I look around the space, noting it looks different than I remember, but I can’t put my finger on why.
I glance in his direction as I begin to walk toward the kitchen, making a circle around the island. These are the most steps I’ve taken without pacing back and forth in a while. My stride lengthens to my normal gait, and I just enjoy the feeling of moving.
Winger leans his ass against the back of the sectional, continuing to watch me. My eyes roam over to the main door, noticing the new locks and the alarm pad beside them.
I don’t want to be caught looking for too long, so I force myself to look away. “I have to say, I’m grateful for the room swap now. It would have sucked to shit in a pot in the corner.” My tone is acidic. I try to rein in my anger, but it’s like a living thing that wants to lash out at him.
He ignores my jab, and it makes me even madder.
“Your face looks okay…well, as okay as it can, considering the scars.” I wince, feigning sympathy, and I get a nasty feeling in my stomach.
His features never shift as I use his appearance against him. My throat feels tight. I can’t believe I said that to him, especially knowing what it feels like. I can’t count how many times I was told what happened to me was my own fault because I was too pretty.
It’s impossible to meet his gaze as I round the island again. Jesus, it’s like I’m my own worst enemy. The minute he shows me any kindness, I snap at his hand. Then I remember I wouldn’t need to be grateful for what he’s giving me if he didn’t lock me in here, and I go around and around again.
The room grows quiet without me filling the silence, and I continue weaving around the apartment but avoid him. When I reach the window, I pull back the thin curtain, looking down at the street below. It’s the same view I have from my room, only I can see a little farther down the street now. It’s barely traveled by foot, but I see cars often. I know because I’ve spent hours looking out, hoping someone would notice me and find a way to help me escape.
“Ready to talk?” Winger asks, his tone flatter than before I insulted him.
“Yes,” I agree, feeling defeated. I hate that I’m going to admit to him that I was enamored with his humanity and kindness after everything that’s happened.
“Tell me about the rock,” he says, and I squint because I have no clue what he’s asking.
He must read the confusion on my face, because he sighs.
“We can try again in a few more weeks.”
Weeks? “No, no, I just don’t know what you mean,” I reply while moving away from him so he doesn’t force me back into the room. My heart is beating fast. I’m on the verge of losing my shit and doing something stupid, like fighting to stay out.
Winger lowers his chin and peers at me from under his brow in a clear display that tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “The rock on my window,” he states emphatically.
“Oh!” The reminder hits me hard and fast. “It’s just something I do…did. Move little things or take or leave little things just to prove I can.” He assesses me for several long seconds, and I feel pressure to elaborate, but I don’t know how without divulging more than I want to. “It’s like proof I was there,” I blurt out.
He pounces on my words. “Proof to whom?”
“Me, only me.” He’s not getting it. “Look, I do things like that sometimes. I like knowing I’ve been someplace undetected. Then, when I go back and see my mark is still there, I know I got in and out without anyone knowing.”
His shrewd stare doesn’t waver. It’s like he’s waiting me out to see if I will share more. I bite the inside of my cheek to ensure I don’t break.
Eventually, he walks the long way around me and takes a seat on the sofa, giving me space. “How did you end up in the alley?” This one won’t be so easy to answer if he starts asking a lot of questions. If I tell him the truth, it could give him more fuel against me. If I lie and he knows it, it could mean banishment back to my makeshift cell.
“I was just walking past, and that guy grabbed my bag, pulling me in.” The fewer details the better.
“Where were you coming from?”
Shit.“A club.”
“Bullshit, try again.” Well, at least he’s not only giving me one shot.
“I dropped off someone’s car.”
His brows shift just enough to make a slight change in his features. “Whose car?”
“Why does it matter?” I counter.
