Flea hesitates, glancing between Razor and the table. "Razor…"
"Flea, are you scared of a Mexican ghost?" Razor sneers.
Flea shakes his head, but his voice is tight. "No. But I think we'd better play by his rules. For now. Until we know what the hell is going on."
Razor massages his chin, staring at me with pure hate. His phone suddenly rings.
"Unknown number." He mumbles before answering and putting it on speaker, clearly annoyed. "What?"
A calm, cold voice fills the room. "You have something of mine. And I expect you to keep her alive and well. For now."
Razor rolls his eyes. "Or?"
"Or I'll have Flea shoot you."
Razor turns to Flea, who just shrugs, looking as confused as the rest of us.
"How about I shoot him first?" Razor snarls, yanking his gun out.
Instantly, four of his own men raise their weapons and point them straight at Razor.
He freezes, eyes wide. "What the fuck is going on here?"
The Collector's voice sounds almost amused. "I am everywhere, Razor. Don't ever forget that."
The line goes dead. The room is dead silent except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. I'm watching all of this with growing horror. I still have no idea who thisCollectorreally is or what he wants from me, but he just turned Razor's own crew against him with a single phone call. That kind of reach is terrifying.
All the while, I'm frantically trying to free myself. My ankles are already bleeding from rubbing the zip ties against the sharp metal edge of the chair leg, back and forth, back and forth. The plastic is cutting deeper with every movement, but I don'tstop. Same with my wrists and forearms, I twist and grind them against the chair's frame, feeling the skin tear and blood trickle down my hands.
Sweat pours down my face, my back, soaking into the expensive designer shirt Gabe put in the closet for me. The fabric is still soft, but it clings to my skin, sticking uncomfortably. Only a few hours ago, it was brand-new. Clean. Now it's ruined.
I call myself an idiot for lamenting a shirt, but I know deep down, this is not about the freaking shirt. The shirt is just a metaphor to distract me. It's not working. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I can't just sit here and wait for Gabe to walk into a trap. I won't let him die for me. I keep working the zip ties, ignoring the burning pain, ignoring the blood, ignoring Razor's furious pacing as he yells at his men.
Because if Gabe comes here alone like they demanded… one of us isn't walking out alive. And I'm terrified it's going to be him.
The very thought of it torments me more than anything Razor can do to me right now. Because Gabe means so much more to me than I've been willing to admit to myself.
Razor mutters something to Flea behind me, keeping his voice low and irritated. "Why the hell would you shoot me? I'm the one who built this crew?—"
Flea cuts him off, sounding tired. "Because apparently the Collector owns half the fucking room now. Just shut up and wait for D'Amato."
I don't pay them any attention. My mind is still whirring; my blood is roaring in my ears as I keep grinding the zip ties against the sharp metal edge of the chair leg.
If Gabe walks through that door to trade his life for mine tonight, I don't think I'll ever forgive myself.
Sweat pours down my face and back, soaking the designer shirt until it clings even more uncomfortably to my skin. My ankles and wrists are bleeding freely now from rubbing the zip ties raw against the chair, but I don't stop. If I have to lose a hand, I will. I can't stop. I read somewhere about a wolf who got tangled in a bear trap and chewed his own leg off to get out. Well, I will if I have to.
Razor and Flea are still bickering behind me, something about loyalty and who the hell the Collector thinks he is, but their voices feel distant. My internal whining falls into a chant.Gabe.Please don't come alone.Please don't die for me. I love you too much for that.
That last thought freezes me completely.
Yes.
Love.
Damn conventions and rules and what'swrongand what'sright. I've fallen in love with that impossible, possessive, dangerous man. The realization crashes over me like a wave, bright, terrifying, and unbelievably freeing. It feels just as electric as that night in the police station when I smirked at the holding cell full of real criminals instead of crumbling. The night something long dormant inside me finally cracked wide open and remembered how to breathe.
