by S. M. West
In some ways, they are similar, strong beyond all reason and a spirit to rival the best fighters. But I can’t make the comparison. Léa was loyal to a fault. Trustworthy. Maggie is neither of those things.
“I don’t want a shower.” Her disturbed gaze hits me like a tidal wave.
“We’re not…” My voice is rough and choppy. “You’re showering alone.”
Frown still in place, she visibly relaxes, and as if joined by an invisible tether, my pulse slows and the knots in my belly untangle. She trusts me on some level. Her body tells me so, and I like having that effect on her.
After her shower, I cuff her to the wrought iron headboard. With my upper body only inches above, she holds her breath and her gaze anxiously searches my face. For what, I’m not sure.
The clean scent of rosemary and mint—her damn shampoo—wafts between us, and my cock stirs. Fuck me. Now is not the time to be aroused, and definitely not with Maggie.
“How long are you going to keep me?”
“Who said I'm keeping you?” My gaze taunts. I don’t know what it is that tempts me to push her, maybe it’s her fiery spirit. She sucks in her bottom lip and the weight of her stare is almost too much to bear.
Before my shower, I text Kit. He’s coming tomorrow. Drago is tearing up the town looking for me, and Slaughter has gone to ground. Well, I’m just going to have to give him a reason to come out of hiding.
8
Thursday 11:42 PM
Maggie
I’m dead.
Like a corpse, I don’t move or breathe. Low, soft snores come from his side of the bed. The only thing keeping me sane and focused is the hope that sleep has finally taken him.
My cuts and bruises paid off. Once showered, he returned to the room in only jeans, muscles, ink, and wet hair. I stared—I couldn’t help myself—and so did he.
Hesitating, he lingered on my bloody wrists for quite some time before removing the cuffs and securing my ankle, instead, to the leg of the bed.
As the metal fell from my wrists, it took every ounce of willpower not to run. I have to be smart, and fleeing at the first chance is reckless and foolish.
Now, I lie still, listening to his slow and steady breaths. He sighs deeply, rolling toward me in the bed. The edges of his fingers graze my forearm. Goosebumps rise on my skin and heat spreads through my body.
My stomach roils at the truth. I hate that his touch doesn’t make me sick. It should. He’s my captor. My enemy. Instead, every stroke, grasp, and hold elicits a burning fervor within. Zealous commotion and craving.
I shake away these confusing thoughts. I don’t have the time to try to understand them, and if all goes well, it won’t matter.
With the curtains open, the moonlight streams into the dark bedroom. My foot nudges his calf, and he doesn’t move. It’s now or never.
The keys for the handcuffs are in his pocket. He fell asleep in his jeans. His seriously beautiful ink is a distraction. Before he turned off the light, I studied every line and curve of his tattoos. For once, when the lights went out, I was grateful for the darkness.
With trembling insides, my hand dips into his pocket, quickly removing the keys. I inch to the edge of the mattress, gingerly sliding to crouch by the leg that binds me to the bed. I study his sleeping form. If he’s faking, he should win an Oscar. I can’t shake the idea that he’s going to pounce at any moment.
The cuff comes off easily, and I glance to a slumbering Nick before I go. The bastard. The silvery moon bathes his peaceful form. A dark angel. Dangerous.
His long lashes fan his shadowed cheeks. His lips are a dusty pink, soft and full. And his body is hard and sculpted.
He is handsome. But handsome doesn’t mean safe or nice; sometimes it even means danger. Ted Bundy was good looking, and so was Christian Bale in American Psycho.
I tiptoe through the house, grabbing the car keys where he left them. Now the alarm. I lucked out this morning and saw the first two digits of the code before he blocked my view. Tonight, I saw the last number when he set the alarm, but I’m missing the third of the four-digit code. Based on the sequence of his fingers, there are two options. It’s a gamble, but given my circumstance, I’ll take the chance.
The more I think about it, I don’t see how this ends well for me. As each day passes, I become more and more of a liability.
My feet slip into my muddy shoes and in the closet, I grab a windbreaker. It’s too big, and I wish it was warmer, but I’ll be running, so my body heat should make it okay.
Before attempting the alarm, I search my memory of today, trying to recall if I saw a flashlight. I’m pretty sure I didn’t, and I can’t waste more time.
Without overthinking it, I enter the first two digits on the keypad; each press emits a soft chime, hopefully not loud enough to wake him. Now, with a leap of faith and a little eenie meenie minie moe, I enter the third number.
I have no idea what happens if I get it wrong. Will the alarm go off? Or nothing happens, and I get to try again? With my eyes squeezed tight, I press down on the final digit, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip. I won’t be surprised if I draw blood. Three soft chimes follow the release of my finger, and the red light turns green. I did it!
I freeze in disbelief for a beat or two before unlocking the front door. The cold northern air smacks me in the face and I scurry down the path, then across the driveway.
Above the garage, a glaring white beam blinks on like a spotlight. The master bedroom window is just above.
“Shit.” I squint, momentarily blinded. It’s so bright, it might wake Nick.
I run across the gravel road and through the yard of another house. The lake is behind me, so I don’t want to go that way. I run, pushing through whatever shrubbery comes my way, and it isn’t too long before I’m on the same path from a few hours ago. Or at least, I think it’s the same path. I’d have preferred the road, but if he wakes, I figure he’ll stick to the streets thinking that’s what I’d do.
With the tall, wide trees, the canopy of leaves blocks the moon. It’s hard slogging with the rugged terrain, and at times, slippery and treacherous without any light.
I stumble, almost falling a few times. Tree limbs and thick bushes slap at my cheeks and catch on my hair, and despite the severe stings, I can’t afford to slow down, but I also can’t risk breaking something.
“Maggie!” His voice rings through the heart of the night, deep and gruff.
My pulse trips and my feet do the same. Crap. It’s no more than ten minutes since I left the house, and from the sound of his call, he’s not that far behind. Damn, did the alarm wake him? Or the light?
Picking up my pace, I consider my options. Hide and hope he sprints past me? Something tells me that’s no more realistic than a fairy tale. The only choice I have is to run.
My foot slides on a rock jutting up from the ground, and I tumble forward onto my hands and knees; my joints groan at the jarring collision with the unforgiving earth. I cry out, the tangy copper taste seeping into my mouth.
“Maggie, stop.” Nick’s command is closer this time.
I dare not turn around to see just how close. I spring to my feet, legs pumping hard and fast over the uneven ground. My thighs burn on the slight incline into the black nothingness.
Despite the freezing temperature, my skin is fevered, and sweat trickles down the back of my neck and between my breasts. My ears fill with my heavy breathing and the thundering of my pulse. Every inhale or beat booms so loud I bet that’s how Nick found me so quickly.
I scuttle closer to the edge of the trail, better positioned to dash into the woods if I have to. My eyes sting from the tree branches whipping and scratching at my face. A brilliant beam of light cuts in front of me. Shit, he’s closer than I thought.
“Maggie.” His tone is cutting like a knife.
His fingers dig into my shoulder, his hard chest slams into my back, but I’m not startled. Somewhere between the house and now, I figured he would catch m
e, but it doesn’t mean I’ll surrender.
“Why do you make this so hard?” His whisper is low and lethal at my neck; shivers skip down my spine like someone dancing on my grave.
One arm slides across my breastbone and the other around my waist, holding me tight to him. His strong heart thumps wildly against my back. My own races in time with his like we’re somehow connected. One.
His warm breath skates along my neck, and his chin rests on my collarbone. He’s both cold and warm to the touch. We stand like that, catching our breath, for what feels like forever.
I’m sure he’s angry with me, but his remarkable calm is unnerving. Surprisingly, he loosens his hold and steps away; his phone-flashlight faces down, the beam sprawled on the ground like a hovering spaceship.
This is my only chance. My stomach dips and my heart squeezes with regret for something I haven’t even done yet. I won’t get another opportunity.
Swiftly, I raise one leg like I’ve done countless times in MMA class and deliver a roundhouse kick to his sternum. Nick’s oof is low and guttural. He staggers back but somehow manages to stay upright.
He lunges for me, and we tumble to the cold, hard ground with him on top of me. My palm lands on a rock, and my fingers curl over the smooth and good-sized stone. Acting on instinct, I lift and swing. Thwack. The rock connects with Nick’s face. I can’t say for sure where—all I know is I got him.
“Fuck!” His howl is pain-riddled.
He’s now off me, clumsy and close, clutching his face. I’m ready to strike again, if needed when my blood runs cold. We hear them at the same time, both stiffening.
Voices, several of them, brusque and loud with heavy Russian accents, bounce off the dense, cold night air. They’ve found us.
9
Friday 12:52AM
Maggie
Four or five beams of light sweep the dark forest like strobes in a nightclub. Fortunately, none of the bright shafts land on us.
“Fuck,” Nick whisper-hisses, stumbling to get us standing.
Turning his phone-flashlight off, he charges into the woods with me in tow. We aren’t quiet. It’s pitch black, and this isn’t our space.
We are marauders having carved a path into the dense thicket of trees and rocks, disrupting the natural wonder of the Laurentian mountains. Branches snap and small stones crunch, giving way when we trample through the brush.
It isn’t difficult to figure out when they spot us. Their voices grow louder, more animated, and closer. They aren’t stealthy in their approach, and why should they be? They are the hunters and have us outnumbered.
I follow Nick blindly when maybe I should run in another direction. But it isn’t just two or three men; there’s easily five if not more, and they could split up if we do and still get us.
For every heavy thud or stomp of their feet gaining on us, my heart gallops faster, harder, threatening to crack every one of my ribs. Did my escape lead them to us? I can’t think of how that’s possible, but then again, I can’t fully fathom that we’re being chased. Again. Our lives are on the line. Again.
Technically, my life was always in jeopardy, but in some strange way, the threat didn’t feel like this with Nick. And now the realization hits me like a punch to the stomach. I am in this with Nick no matter what. He’s right. These guys are after both of us. If they found me out here without Nick, they’d hurt me and maybe even kill me.
Unexpectedly, he wraps his arm around my waist, and I don’t recoil. Instead, I’m grateful for the assist over the large rocks, the ones I didn’t even notice springing from the earth.
Once clear of any impediments, he places me on the ground and interlaces our fingers. His hand is hot and sticky, almost wet but not from sweat, something thicker.
Is it a good thing that I’m glad Nick is with me? Or is it Stockholm syndrome? Or maybe it’s just circumstance: we’re being chased by murderous Russian thugs. Even with all Nick has done, I know in my heart he struggles with what he has done to me. Whereas these guys want to hurt us. Kill us.
“Prophet, you can run but you can’t hide!” one of the guys taunts, sounding as if he’s right behind us. “Can’t wait to get you. Your little thing is gonna be mine. I bet she tastes as sweet as sugar. I’m hard just thinking about what I’m gonna do to her.”
“Hey, she’s ours,” another voice pipes up.
“Sure, sure. I’ll share.” The first guy chuckles and panic grips my insides.
I suck in a breath and stop. Nick turns to me. “Ignore them. They won’t get us. C’mon.”
I don’t budge, and he places both hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “Maggie.” He leans in so close our noses almost touch. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth and his jaw is swollen. “I won’t let them hurt you. I swear. We gotta go. Now.”
I don’t know if it’s how he says it or what I want to hear, but I believe him. He’d rather die than let them get me. Nick is my only hope at getting out alive.
We run, and I glance at my hand, the one Nick was holding before we stopped. It’s stained with his blood. Regret coils my insides at hitting him with the rock. I’m surprised he’s up and running, but adrenaline is a powerful, natural high that defies logic.
Further into the foliage we run, and with the rapid thumping of my pulse, I can’t hear a thing. Have we lost them? At most, I can hope we’ve gained a substantial lead.
He stops abruptly at the edge of an embankment. “Gotta get down there. Quick.”
My heart leaps into my throat, threatening to suffocate me. Large, flat rocks, almost like stairs, scatter along the steep, craggy mountainside. At the bottom, there’s a running brook, barely audible above my panting. The water must be freezing.
The decline must be easily thirty feet, and there’s nothing easy about it. In daylight, without homicidal maniacs chasing us, the landscape would be pretty. Worth painting. But right now, my insides seize and my knees lock.
“I can’t.”
I don’t have many fears. I can count them on one hand with a few fingers to spare, but the fears I do have go deep. Paralyzingly deep. Even with therapy, I haven’t been able to fully overcome them. Being in that trunk, even if only for a short time, brought all my fears crashing down on me, and now this.
“You have to. C’mon.” He yanks on my hand, and I try to break free, but fail.
I have coping methods, breathing techniques, that work if I’m calm and focused. I can’t be either of those things right now. Not with death nipping at our heels. I can’t do this.
And even at that, I know I couldn’t do it in broad daylight with no looming threat. There’s a reason why I don’t go near the rock climbing wall at the gym, and it isn’t because I suck at it. I can’t do heights. Darkness bothers me, too, but somehow, I’ve managed to master that fear better than heights.
“Maggie.” He’s in my face, our lips not even an inch apart. “Whatever the fuck this is, knock it off. Now. We gotta go. We’ve got a lead on them, but it won’t be for long.”
“I can’t. Go without me.”
Even as I speak, the little voice in my head shouts to get it together and push through this heart-stopping phobia for the sake of my life. To go with Nick. The funny thing is, no matter the logic, I’m still glued to the spot.
He drags me, and my fingers sink into his flesh. He hisses but doesn’t stop. A deep animalistic rumble erupts from deep in my throat.
“Shut up. You’ll get us killed.” He’s livid. “Is this your idea of forcing me to let you go? It’s fucking stupid. They’ll rape you and do way more than your worst nightmare. And then, just for kicks, they’ll gut you.”
His words don’t scare me any more than I already am. I want to explain to him that I understand the danger we’re in, but I’m staring down a fear greater than any other.
Losing both your parents in one night—with a front row seat to my mother’s murder—will do that to a person. Their deaths, especially my mother’s, haunt me. It’s as if the four horse
men of the apocalypse are in front of me. I don’t stand a chance.
He doesn’t wait for me to respond; instead, I’m lifted off the ground, and I scream. A small part of me knows to be quiet, but I can’t. I won’t.
At the crest of the hill, he puts me down, and I’m a mess. I want him away from me and push at him while stepping back, not looking where I’m going, I tumble over the edge.
My scream lodges in my throat, and Nick lunges toward me, but I’m not within his reach.
Careening down the steep, rocky cliff, I’m headed for the icy water below and I cry his name. He shouts mine, no longer concerned with keeping quiet.
My ankle rolls, smashing into something hard, and pops. My hands reach desperately for anything to stop me, but everything I grasp feels like knives ripping at my already-broken flesh.
He’s quick to follow, bowling down the rocky terrain, and finally grabs hold of me. With sheer force, he halts my decline. Pain radiates from my shoulder and ankle, and I release an excruciating moan.
“You hurt?” He crouches beside me, and I grab at my ankle.
“I think I twisted it.” I bite my bottom lip to divert the shooting pain. It feels like it’s snapped in two. He shines his phone on my foot; it’s already ballooning in size.
“Shit.” He lifts me to my feet, taking all my weight despite the uneven incline. “Can you walk on it?”
Pressing down on my wounded foot, I grimace and sob. It hurts like hell, but the one good thing is the pain has robbed me of my fear. If I focus solely on putting one foot in front of the other, I’ll be fine. I hope.
“I can do it, but it’ll be slow. They may catch up.” Now I remember our impending threat, expecting them to be on us at any moment.
“You can’t walk on it.” His jaw is set, and one side of his face is puffy. Dammit, why’d I have to hit him? He’s hurting too.