Page 93 of Untamed Sinner

“None of that helps if they don’t know what they’re protecting her from. Turner has her marked, Gabriel.”

That shuts him up.

I stare off into the tree line. What happened to me was a long time ago, but some things stay no matter how much time has passed and how much you heal. “You know I can’t gamble her life. I’d rather be wrong and piss off every Whitlock in Montana than be right and too late.”

He’s silent a long time. “Tell the Whitlocks.”

“And say what? We think someone might come for Clara, we don’t know who, when, how, or why?”

“Yes, but preferably with fewer words.”

I snort. “They’ll throw me in jail.”

“One less liability in the world.”

“No one would look for Clara Whitlock with Gabriel Reyes,” I say brightly.

“Because our families hate each other.”

“See? It’s perfect.” I cross my fingers. “Absolutely no sane person would believe you’d risk your ass taking a Whitlock.”

“I’m hanging up.”

I have him now. “It makes you perfect.”

“Mandy, you want me to kidnap Clara Whitlock.”

Pursing my lips, I think about that. “Well, I guess technically, yeah. Does that make it more tempting?”

“Mandy, have you lost your fucking mind?” He’s walking, because I can hear his shoes clacking crisply on tile. “You’re asking me to abduct a Whitlock. If her family finds out I took her, they won’t ask questions. They’ll come for mine.”

I shrug. “Then don’t get caught.”

“Brilliant.” Sarcasm drips off the word. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you were too busy complaining,” I say sweetly.

He mutters something in Spanish I’m fairly certain is anatomically impossible.

When the cursing stops, I say quietly, “Gabriel, you know what happens to women who get caught in Turner’s world.” My fingers tighten around the phone. “I’m telling you Clara might be next.”

“Might.”

“Yes.”

He pauses. When he speaks, he sounds calmer. “And that’s enough for you?”

I think about Turner’s notebooks. The names. The girls who never got a warning. “Yes.”

A long silence stretches between us.

Then Gabriel starts swearing again—in English this time as well as in Spanish. I lean against the porch railing and wait him out.

Finally, he says, “You’re going to owe me for this until one of us dies.”

“Probably you, after the Whitlocks find out,” I tease.

“Fuck.” He says a few more things in Spanish. “Send me everything you have,” and he hangs up.