But as he brushes the hair from my face with gentle fingers, as he presses tender kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips, I can't bring myself to care. Whatever this is—obsession, possession, protection, love—it feels more real than anything I've ever known.
And I never want it to end.
nine
. . .
Woodrow
The textfrom Jensen comes at 2:17 PM. "Baker spotted at The Rusty Nail. Drinking alone." Baker—one of the men who tried to grab Priscilla. One of the men I let live, a decision I've been second-guessing every day since. He's the weak link in Donovan's operation, prone to running his mouth when he's drunk. If he's at that dive bar on the edge of town, downing whiskey in the middle of the afternoon, he's either celebrating something or drowning his sorrows. Either way, he'll talk. And I'll be there to listen—right before I make him wish he'd never heard the name Priscilla Marshall.
Priscilla looks up from her book as I strap on my shoulder holster, concern immediately clouding those hazel eyes I can't get enough of.
"You're leaving?" She marks her place with her finger, sitting up straighter on the couch.
"Got a lead," I tell her, checking the magazine in my Glock before holstering it. "One of the guys from the parking lot. Might be able to get some useful information."
She sets her book aside, standing, crossing to me. Five days together and already she moves into my space withouthesitation, her small hands resting on my chest. My heart kicks against her palm.
"Be careful," she says softly, the same words she's said every time I've left the cabin. Like they're a talisman that will bring me back to her.
I cup her face, tilting it up to mine. "Always am, little girl." I kiss her hard, possessive, marking her lips the way I've marked the rest of her. When I pull back, her eyes are dazed, lips parted. Perfect. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me. I'll be back in a few hours."
The Rusty Nail is a shithole—neon beer signs casting sickly light over sticky floors, the smell of stale smoke clinging to everything despite the state-wide ban. Mid-afternoon, the place is nearly empty. A weathered bartender polishing glasses. Two old-timers nursing beers at one end of the bar. And there, hunched over what looks like whiskey neat, is Baker.
Even from behind, I recognize him. Average height, wiry build, thinning brown hair. The back of his neck still bears the bruise from where I slammed his head into the van door. Good. I hope it hurt.
I slide onto the stool next to him, nodding at the bartender. "Jack. Neat."
Baker doesn't look up, doesn't register my presence. Not until I speak directly to him, my voice pitched low so only he can hear.
"How's the arm, Baker? Set properly?"
His head snaps up, eyes widening with recognition and fear. Good. He remembers me. His right arm is in a cast—broken when I twisted it behind his back, the sound of the snap still satisfying when I recall it.
"Fuck," he breathes, already looking for an escape route. There isn't one. I've positioned myself between him and thedoor, and even if he made it past me, he wouldn't get far with that broken arm.
"Not very friendly," I chide, accepting my drink from the bartender with a nod. "After our last meeting, I thought we were practically family."
"What do you want?" His voice shakes, eyes darting to the bartender, the other patrons. No help coming from those quarters. Smart enough to realize that, at least.
"Information." I sip my whiskey, savoring the burn. "Donovan. His plans. Specifically, anything involving a certain young woman I've grown…attached to."
Baker's throat works as he swallows hard. "I don't know nothing about that. I was just hired muscle. Just following orders."
"Just following orders," I repeat, setting my glass down with a deliberate click. "Funny how often I hear that right before I start breaking things." I smile, nothing friendly about it. "More things."
His good hand trembles as he reaches for his drink. "Look, man, I'm out. After what you did to me and Martinez, I told Donovan to find someone else. I don't want any part of this."
"Noble of you." My tone makes it clear what I think of his sudden attack of conscience. "But I need more than that. I need to know what Donovan's planning. When and where he's making his next move."
Baker's eyes slide away from mine. "I told you, I'm out. I don't know anything."
A lie. I can smell it on him, see it in the way he won't meet my gaze. I lean in closer, dropping my voice lower.
"Let me be very clear. The only reason you're still breathing is because I let you live that night. That can change. Quickly. Permanently."
He licks his lips nervously. "You don't understand. Donovan will kill me if I talk."
