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I ripped every last bit off the bone. The crust crackled. The meat gave way, tender and salty and smoky, and juice ran hot over my tongue. It was the best thing I had ever eaten in my life. Warm meat dangled from my chin as I tried to gobble it down. His hand moved, perhaps to wipe it away, and I jerked my head to the side and chewed faster, glaring at him, daring him with my eyes to try to take it from me.

His hand froze. His eyes widened.

I swallowed every last bit of it. Sauce stuck to my lip, sweet and tangy. I licked it away without shame. Then I nudged his knee with my foot, and I opened my mouth again.

Come on, cheesy potato with chives.

He barely survived. He wouldn’t be much of a shooter without his fingers.

❦ ❦ ❦

As soon as my belly was full, my eyes began to droop. The food sat warm and heavy inside me, and the room softened at the edges, the red light smearing across the ceiling.

“Can you brush my teeth, please?” I murmured.

His eyes moved to my bound hands. I watched the calculations form behind them, quick and silent, weighing risk against logistics. Before I could add a word, he moved. My face hit his chest as he scooped me up like a big ol’ sack of potatoes, and the world tilted. Solid. Warm. A steady heartbeat beneath my ear, and the smell of cedar and smoke. His shirt rode up my thighs. Without looking, he tugged the hem back down with one finger.

The bathroom light buzzed. The tiles were cold beneath his boots and the mirror was still fogged at the edges. There was only one toothbrush, a flimsy motel-issue thing in plastic, but given that I didn’t know what day it was or how long it had been since I last brushed my teeth, I didn’t complain.

My body slid down his torso as he set me on the edge of the counter. His palm settled at my waist, not my back. It held me steady, and it did not linger.

He avoided looking at me as he spread the toothpaste across the bristles with the concentration of a surgeon. I dutifully opened my mouth. He brushed diligently. Up, down, back and sides. Twice. The mint stung my split lip and I hissed once. His hand stilled, then adjusted the angle to avoid the cut. I noticed. I filed it away. Two minutes, near enough, and a decent technique for a man who probably did not brush anyone else’s teeth. No flossing, though. I decided not to push him.

He cupped his hand beneath the tap and held it to my mouth so I could rinse. The water was cold and his palm was warm. His hand was enormous, each finger far longer than mine, the knuckles scarred pale. I spat into the sink and tried to make it look dignified.

“Toilet?”

I shook my head.

He bent, one arm beneath my legs and the other around my waist, and picked me up again. I felt his warmth as I landed against his chest. The tight, careful grip on my bare legs. He carried me back and set me down on the bed, on the side closest to the bathroom and farthest from the door.

I wasn’t sure if it was to protect me or to prevent another escape attempt. I couldn’t promise him I wouldn’t run given the chance, because I wasn’t sure what I would do.

He dragged the chair to the foot of the bed and sat. I heard the rasp of a zip and tried to keep my eyes open. The taste of mint in my mouth was pleasant, clean, almost ordinary. Something cold and sharp-smelling touched my sole, and I flinched.

He did not say a word. His hand closed around my ankle, steady and warm, and held it still. He worked slowly, one foot at a time, dabbing and pausing and dabbing again, with the same patience he had used on the rope. A tiny click of tweezers. A sting. A sliver of gravel, lifted out and set aside.

The pillow was soft. My belly was full. The window unit rattled, and the absolute exhaustion from my ordeal rolled over me like a tide.

The last thing I felt was his thumb pressing against the arch of my foot. The weight of his hand on the rope. Even bound, lying on the only bed in the room, with a stranger at the end of it, I felt safe.

Chapter 12

Tau

Her breathing evened out. Slow and steady, her ribs rising and falling beneath the cornflower shirt. I didn’t know her name or where she came from or how long ago she had been abducted. But I was grateful she was asleep. Awake, her eyes had not left me alone for a second. Those big brown eyes, wide, with lashes so long they fluttered with each blink. Now they were closed, and the bruise along her cheekbone looked darker without them.

I shouldn’t have tied her up the way I had.

My fingers tightened around her ankles. I checked each loop, the way I always did. Warm skin. Good colour. The jute had darkened where her pulse beat against it.

Handcuffs would have sufficed. Ropes were intimate.

Yet she had not complained. Not once.

God. What was wrong with me?

I shook my head and gently drew the blue shirt up to check her back. Small scrapes marked the shoulder blades, shallow and angry. It didn’t look so bad, but her pain was probably more from the bruising, a deep violet blooming beneath the skin. I reached into the first aid kit and took out a tube of cream that would help with both.