"I can't promise what I don't know. But I will try. Dom is staying with you; he's the only man I trust. He will protect you. You rest, okay?"
"Rest? How?"
She places her hand on my stomach, over the blanket.
"You let your instincts take over, Harper. Your body needs rest for the baby. Let us take the stress."
My mind fills with images of Hudson's body, and my blood drains. She knows. She just said I murdered Hudson, and I didn’t even clock it.
"G… What do you mean you know I killed Hudson?" I whisper.
She grins. "Yes, Harper. We found Hudson's body in the trunk. Or, well, hanging out of it. I put two and two together. We put him in the driver's seat and let the car burn. No one will suspect a thing."
She says it the way other people sayI picked you up a coffee.
I rest my head back against the pillow and close my eyes, my mind spiraling, and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.
I have to be strong for Ace. For our baby. I have to trust this woman despite all my instincts telling me not to.
"It was an accident," I tell her.
"I don't care. Not my business. Now sleep."
She stops by the door. Nods to Dom. Then looks at me, and for half a second, the red eyes are back.
"Harper, I'm sorry about this. A precaution."
And then she's gone, and Dom is handcuffing me to the railing of this makeshift hospital bed.
"Do you seriously think I have the ability to run?" I snap.
His face remains neutral.
"People do crazy things when they're desperate, Harper, and honestly? If anything else happens today, Gianna is going to explode, and I gotta pick up the pieces." He tells me in his thick Italian accent.
My stomach sinks, thinking about Ace.
Wherever he is. Whatever they're doing to him. All I can do is lie here and wait while my entire future plays out without me.
I can’t do this without him. I can’t live without him. I’ve tried.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Ace
Song- Fearless, PRESIDENT
They've left me alone with two guards.
I've been working the cuff for an hour. Every movement sends lightning through my arm, white spots bursting behind my eyes. I bite down on the pain the way I bite down before a ride. Eight seconds. That's all anything ever is. Eight seconds at a time.
The swelling is my friend now. Blood slicks my wrist. I fold my thumb in, grind my hand through the metal, and feel skin tear.
The cuff slips free.
I don't move. I sit exactly as I was, broken arm cradled in my lap, head down, breathing heavy, the way a beaten man should. The two guards are by the door, talking low in Italian. One has a rifle slung lazily across his chest, the other is scrolling on his phone.
I think about Harper. Hanging upside down in that seatbelt. The smoke. Her hand, two feet from mine.
