Page 81

As the sun sets, it looks like the horizon goes on forever, and there’s no end in sight.

I steal a glance at Rowan and see that his eyes are constantly scanning our surroundings and the horizon, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

My tone is soft, almost drowned out by the rumble of the engine. “What’s wrong?”

“Just on guard. This stretch of land is used by the cartels to smuggle shit into the States, and there’s a chance we might cross paths with the Bratva.”

“Oh.” My body tenses, and I begin to search the area around us.

Suddenly, Rowan brings the truck to a stop, and grabbing the binoculars, he gets out and looks at something. The next second, he jumps back in, and turning off the path we were on, he slowly drives toward the mountain on our left until he feels we’re far enough from the road, then switches off the engine.

Glancing at me, he says, “We’re just going to wait here for a bit. There’s a car approaching.”

My eyes flit back to the road, but I can’t see it from where we are.

Jesus. All this stress is going to be the end of me.

The engine makes a tick-tick sound as it cools, and I hear cicadas buzz on and off.

The heat feels oppressive, and it has me reaching for the bag with our supplies. Grabbing two bottles of water, I hold one out to Rowan. “You need to stay hydrated.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs as he takes it from me.

My eyes drift over the clothes he’s wearing, and when I feel the pull of attraction, I quickly focus on the water in my hands.

This morning, when he changed into a plaid button-up shirt, a pair of blue jeans, and boots, I struggled not to stare.

It doesn’t help that he has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It makes him look like a hot cowboy who tames bulls in his spare time.

While I sip on the water, my attention is drawn back to Rowan when he reaches across me and digs a bandana out of the bag. He opens his door and pours some water over the fabric, then he surprises me when he presses it to the back of my neck.

The cool sensation gives me goose bumps and instant relief from the heat.

He keeps wetting the cloth and wipes all around my neck and over my forehead. I can feel his intense gaze on me, and try as I might, I can’t stop myself from meeting his eyes.

It doesn’t escape my attention that only the fabric touches me.

My thoughts return to when I woke up the past two mornings, sprawled all over him. Every time, his arms were still folded beneath his head. He didn’t say anything about it, for which I’m grateful.

When he’s done cooling my skin, he also wipes the back of his neck before getting out of the truck with the binoculars.

I stare at him while he checks the road, wondering how this is going to work.

How can I trust him after what he did to Katherina?

I recall when he told me he would kill me if he had no other choice. Even though I understand his reasoning behind it, I can’t comprehend how you can shoot someone you claim to love.

I would never be able to kill him.

I try to imagine the Bratva torturing Rowan, and as one after another sickening thought creeps through my mind, I begin to feel physically ill.

At what point would I reach my limit? When they’re beating him? Waterboarding him? Starving him?

Rowan gets back into the truck, the cab shifting under his weight, and as he starts the engine, I ask, “Which torture methods do they use?”

He knows what I’m referring to, and while he slowly steers the truck back toward the road, he answers, “You don’t need that kind of information in your head.”

“Tell me,” I insist, my eyes glued to the never-changing view ahead of me.