Page 54

I doubt that very much.

He settles into the driver’s seat and steers the car back onto the road.

It takes close to an hour for me to process that Rowan is a trained killer, and eventually, my thoughts turn away from the dangerous and uncertain future that awaits me, and I think about Miles and Harlan.

I hope they’re okay. They must be so worried about me.

Then I realize Miles knew all along who Rowan was. That’s why he warned me, and I stupidly ignored him.

The US marshals are probably searching for us.

I grab onto the thought with both hands, and hope unfurls in my chest.

My mind clears a little, and I’m able to start thinking rationally again.

Keep Rowan calm, and whatever you do, don’t antagonize him. You’ve worked two and a half months with him. He’s only turned to violence when provoked.

For some reason, he cares about me, but I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

My tongue darts out to wet my lips, and taking a fortifying breath, I look at Rowan.

He’s still attractive, but now I see the danger coiled in his muscled body. The set of his jaw. The way his eyes slowly scan the area around us.

He isn’t panicked, but in complete control.

To test him, I pretend to reach for the handle of the door.

He doesn’t move a muscle, his eyes only touching on my hand for a second before returning to the road.

“Your seat belt is on,” he says calmly. “But yes, I’d stop you before you can get the door open.”

God, he’s aware of every single thing around him. That takes some serious focus, and it tells me I won’t get away from him easily.

Feeling like I’m owed a ton of answers, I ask, “Was any of what you told me about your past true?”

“Yes. I grew up on the streets of Chicago. When I was seventeen, I saved enough for a bus ticket to New York. Worst mistake of my life.”

My body remains tense while my mind absorbs the information. “Why?”

He keeps his eyes on the road ahead, his left hand on the steering wheel while his other one rests on his thigh.

It’s so he can reach for me in a heartbeat.

“I got a job at a club, cleaning floors and restrooms,” he says, drawing my attention to his face. “I watched the bartenders, memorizing the drinks they made, and I admired the DJs, thinking it would be awesome to get one of those jobs.”

There’s no emotion in his voice as he finally opens up to me.

“I was there four days when Bastien Tarasov saw me. He called me up to the VIP floor, and I stupidly thought I was lucky to have caught the owner’s attention.” Rowan’s eyes flick to me, and he pauses for a few seconds before scanning our area again. “Bastien is the head of the Bratva. He took an instant liking to me. For a week, he kept me glued to his hip, and I watched as drugs, people, and counterfeit goods changed hands. One day, he pushed a gun into my hand and ordered me to kill a man. If I did what he wanted, he’d give me fifty thousand dollars. If I didn’t, he’d kill me, so I pulled the trigger.”

A tear escapes and rolls down my cheek while my heart breaks.

He was just a boy.

“With one bullet, I got promoted from cleaning restrooms to taking out Bastien’s enemies. I told myself they were all bad people, and eventually it became my life.”

With the tips of my fingers, I brush the tear away.

Even though I’m terrified of Rowan, I can’t help but feel sorry for him. “How did you end up in witness protection?”