by Kyle Autumn
Is that too much to ask?
It has been too much to ask for years now. But I’m ready for more than that.
When I open the door, he pushes away from the doorframe. It isn’t lost on me that this is how we met less than twenty-four hours ago: in the doorway of a bathroom. It’s not at a bar this time—it’s at his house. And I still don’t know his name. So I push my hair out of my face and take a deep breath.
“Who are you?” I ask. It’s not the direct question I should have asked to get the answer I want. But it feels more important now that I’ve said it out loud.
He runs a hand forward over the top of his hair, standing up straighter in the doorway. “I don’t fucking know anymore,” is all he says before he turns away from me and heads down the hallway.
I lean out through the doorframe to watch him go, but I almost dip back inside the room when he pauses at the top of the stairs.
With a hand bracing the railing and his head hanging down, he quietly mutters, “But you can call me Zane.”
I swallow that down, unwilling to test it on my tongue just yet. “I’m Hanna Lee,” I reply, which shocks me. I meant to say Willow. It’s the name I’ve had since Adam claimed me as his three years ago. I want to rip that name out of the air and stuff it back into hiding. No one’s called me that for years, and I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed it. Especially when he repeats it.
“Hanna Lee.” His quiet, staccato breath sounds like a humorless laugh. “I guess that fits you.”
“It does?”
“Yeah.” He makes that noise again and then faces me this time. His eyes blaze in the muted light filtering in between clouds. “Food.” With a single finger, he points down toward the first floor. “Then we better figure out our next steps.”
That gruffness in his voice is back. I’m not sure why or what I did to deserve it now, but that seems to be his way. Hot and cold. Volatile and accommodating. He says I’m safer with him than I am with the police.
All I know is that I’m safer with him than I am with Adam.
I hope that counts for something.
11
Zane
Hanna Lee. Huh. That’s not the name I was given.
Is this another lie? A lie from Adam, or a lie from her? I honestly can’t tell. And I can’t test it without her knowing that something is wrong. For now, I’ll go with it.
Our early lunch is quiet. She inhales the peanut butter and jelly sandwich like it’s a gourmet fucking feast. I have no idea what she’s been eating for the last few days, but it looks like nothing if her gaunt frame is anything to judge by. Maybe Adam didn’t let her eat that much, either. The moment it’s gone, I ask if she wants another, and all she does is nod meekly.
The urge to tell her to make it herself slides around under my tongue. I’m trying not to be an asshole, but I also don’t want her to be so damn demure and shy. She needs to break out of that shell and get back to taking if she’s going to survive. Adam bred her to be this way, so she has to snap the fuck out of it.
In the end, I go with the first urge. “Everything’s still on the counter.” Then I point over my shoulder to the bread and the condiments before taking another bite of my own sandwich. As I chew, she rises from her seat and goes to the counter, her head still down.
Damn. This woman.
Every submissive thing she does drives her deeper under my skin. I thought I’d lost that ability to get close to someone, to care about anything other than pure instinct and survival. To do more than hunt down those who’ve wronged the man I used to work for. But it should have occurred to me that most men don’t need that many people killed. Maybe the people wronging him weren’t the problem.
So maybe I have a lot of sins to account for.
And maybe I don’t deserve to let this woman get under my skin any more than she already has.
Other urges grate on me. The urge to protect her. The urge to heal her. The urge to satisfy her.
The urge to get back on my knees and make her come on my mouth a thousand more times so she knows what it feels like to be worshipped by a man—not hurt.
But fuck all that.
That shit has no room in my life. No space to settle down in. I’ve built my world based on what’s necessary and that’s it. All I need is to live another day, do one more job, and get the fuck out of here. That job used to be one thing, but now, it’s totally different.
Now, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
I have a plan. It’s not my best one. But it’s the only one I have. She seems fresh out of those, so it’s on me now. And as long as she’s telling me the truth, I’ll make it work. Somehow. One fucking way or another, I’ll make it happen.
While she’s eating her second sandwich, I go out back to buy us some time. The line of my property extends a hundred acres to the north, and I run a perimeter check at least once a week. Nothing happens on this property without my knowing. That’s never been more important than it is now.
Whoever is after her will come after me once the dots have been connected. Once they know she’s with me, that fight will fall right at my doorstep. So I have some serious work to do.
And it all starts with one phone call.
“Zane,” Adam says when he picks up. There’s no tension in his voice. Nothing that would give away the fact that his wife is missing and he’s worried about her. No sign that he wants her back.
What a fucking dick.
“Have you caught her?” he asks, his tone still smooth. “My intel on the ground says otherwise, so don’t even think about lying to me.”
“No, sir.” I stuff my free hand into my pocket and stare up at the clouds overhead. Sure, I lied, but it’s the answer he was clearly expecting. And honestly, I caught nothing—if anything, she caught me. “I followed her to a bar after she stopped at a motel. Her car is still there though. She must have slipped out the back.”
“Oh, Zane.” Adam tsks his tongue. “What am I going to do with you? You were supposed to be the end of this.”
“And I will be, sir,” I say, stopping short of laughing at that. “I just need a few more days. I’m certain she didn’t go far. I know this town like the back of my hand.”
“A few more days, hmm?” He sighs down the line like he’s not amused. “Fine. You have three. Seventy-two hours, Zane, or you give me no choice but to remove you from the team.”
If I thought that was an actual thread, I’d be worried. But I’m not. I’ll take whatever he brings at me. Because I’m the whatever it fucking takes man.
But the strangeness in his voice causes me some concern. When he first contacted me for this job, he was crazed. Shouting down the line, so forceful that I could have sworn I felt his spit through the phone. Now, it’s like he’s calm, unflappable, and not worried in the least.
That’s what sets me on edge. Not his threat, but his lack of negative emotion. His unpredictability makes him a threat more than any muscle he could send this way. That’s what worries me.
The phone clicks, so I know he hung up. I gaze back at the house, wondering how much I should tell this woman. Hanna Lee. Willow. Whoever the fuck she is. Should I come clean? Tell her that I’m supposed to bring her back to her husband? Or should I let her think I’m a Good Samaritan who wants to help her out of the kindness of my heart?
Ha. Yeah. Right. Like she’d believe that.
I don’t even think I could say that with a straight face.
I don’t know the right move here. All I know how to do is keep to myself. I keep secrets, tell lies, and do whatever I have to in order to survive. But this isn’t just about my survival anymore. It’s about hers.
And that’s starting to grow on me more than I care to admit.
12
Hanna Lee
When Zane comes back into the kitchen, his demeanor’s completely different. He’s generally cold, standoffish. But it’s a thousand times worse as he sits to finish his lunch. I continue to eat mine, still kind of hungry. Fo
od was scarce, even before I left. Making my own sandwich felt like a victory in some small way, so I savor the moment.
After dusting the crumbs off his hands, he says, “So, how’d you get away?” He won’t look at me, but I can feel the tension from here. The anger he’s working through just from asking me that.
I wipe my hands with my napkin and swallow the last bit of my food. After a sip of water, I pretend like reliving this isn’t killing me. “One of Adam’s men left his keys on the kitchen counter one day. I hit the button to open the trunk, and before he left, I snuck outside and got in.”
When he finally looks at me, it’s with a cocked eyebrow and a tiny but proud smirk. “That’s how you got the car?”
Now, it’s my turn to look a little proud. “Yeah. I hoped that if he left his keys around at the house, he’d do it again. But he stopped at a gas station and left the car running for a while, so I dared to look outside. When I didn’t see him around, I bolted for the driver’s side and took off.”
“Huh.” He stays quiet for a while. I’m not sure if he’s still proud or wondering how much I’ve fucked us over by stealing that vehicle. It’s not here, so I don’t know what the problem is. But the, he wipes a hand over his face and goes out the back door again.
Zane is gone for a long time. So long that it starts to get dark outside while I wait for him. I don’t think he left; his truck is still in the driveway. I’ve trained myself to listen for things like that, so I would have noticed. And I doubt he went anywhere by foot. We’re miles and miles away from the highway or where the bar is. He has to still be here.
And I hate that I feel so alone without him.
I’m used to being alone. I spent a lot of time alone when I was with Adam. With all of his money, he was gone a lot, doing whatever his latest whim had inspired him to do. Sometimes he took me along, but the more scars he carved into my body, the less he let me leave his property. It’d been months since I was allowed to leave, so I found a way to leave when I wasn’t allowed.
Now, I’m kind of regretting that.
Sometimes it’s easier to deal with the shit you’re already used to. The not knowing is what’s killing me the most. Not knowing when he’ll turn up. not knowing when I’ll run out of time. Not knowing where Zane is and when he’ll be back. Not knowing if he actually wants me around or just feels obligated for some strange reason.
Not knowing is going to fuck me up.
It was almost easier on my own. I didn’t have him to worry about too. All I needed to do was survive another day. But at least there are sandwiches here. He even has pasta. Well, had. I made some. I thought he’d be back for dinner, but he wasn’t. So I cleaned it all up, packaged up the rest I didn’t eat, and went back to the couch in his living room to wait.
And wait. And wait. And wait.
It’s half past eight when the back door swings open.
I fly to my feet, strong and steady. If it’s not Zane, then I have to be ready for whoever it really is. And if it is him, I have to show him that I’m not scared. I’m not frightened. I’m not afraid. I’m just ready.
What I’m not ready for is the gun in his hand.
“You need this,” he tells me, extending it out to me.
I stay frozen though. Guns were never a part of Adam’s torture. Knives, whips, chains, needles—even scissors and tweezers in a pinch. But not guns. I don’t even think he has one. His men do. I know that for sure. But not him. So I’m not familiar. Not even close. And not terribly willing to take it from him.
But he thrusts it at me anyway. “Here. Take this.” His voice is rougher this time.
I swallow thickly, tentatively reaching careful fingers toward the gun. To him, I’m not fast enough, so he shoves it in my direction again, grunting his displeasure.
“I don’t think you understand the danger you’re in,” he growls at me. “So fucking take this.”
Part of me doesn’t understand why he thinks I need it. Sure, he knows that someone broke into my motel room. But what does he know about the danger I’m in?
Maybe he can smell it on me. Or maybe it’s just my scars. Anyone who looks the way I do and then acts the way I do must be in heaps of trouble. I guess I’m not that difficult to figure out.
When I finally accept the gun, its weight surprises me. It’s much heavier than I was expecting. Like a bowling ball but more compact.
“It’s loaded. There’s a round in the chamber.” He points to the middle of the gun. “So keep your fucking finger off the trigger until you mean to kill whatever’s in front of you.”
“Kill?” The word formed into a question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Yeah. Kill. That’s what you might have to do, and you have to accept that.” He raises his eyebrows like he’s waiting for me to verbally confirm that fact.
But I can’t.
I’ve pictured all the ways I could torture Adam back. I’ve imagined all kinds of creative ways to return his favors. I used to daydream about it in those moments when he’d leave me alone to do whatever it was he did when he wasn’t mutilating me.
I never once pictured killing him though.
Call it sick. Call it twisted. But I’ve always imagined him around.
He instilled in me some deep desire to be his for the rest of eternity. Maybe life wasn’t ideal—not even fucking close. But it was a life where I didn’t need to worry about money, shelter, or other basic needs like oxygen. All I had to do was stay alive. Simple as that, though it was more difficult than I can explain at some points in my life.
Still, his fucked-up way of caring for me grew on me. So much so that I couldn’t picture a life without him doing that. It didn’t stop me from leaving, but it did prevent me from even thinking about ending his life for all the things he’s done to me. Maybe because one bullet to the head isn’t enough for the thousands of scars he’s left on my skin. That would be too easy for a man like him. Way too fucking easy.
“Thanks,” I tell Zane.
He starts to walk away, perhaps satisfied that he’s done enough for the day.
I stop him with my voice. “But no. No guns.”
When he faces me again, I stretch the gun in his direction. I almost can’t hold it anymore. Weak and in pain, I grit my teeth so as not to show frailty.
“Excuse me?” he asks without taking the gun from me.
So I thrust it at him some more. “I said no guns. That’s not good enough.”
He squints at me, wiping his thumb on his lip. “Not good enough. What the fu—”
“I mean,” I say, talking over him, “I’m not shooting the man who’s coming after me. That’s not a good enough way for him to die.”
His eyes flash wide for a moment before a satisfied smirk graces his lips. That smirk does a little something it shouldn’t to my insides. Approval from Zane has already become addicting.
He takes the gun from my hands and sets it on the coffee table. “Then what do you want?”
I give it one more look before I say, “I want to know how to defend myself.”
“And what are you going to do after that? After you defend yourself, what’s your plan?” He opens a drawer of the coffee table and puts the gun inside.
After running my fingers through my shorn hair, I huff a breath out. “I haven’t gotten that far. I really don’t know.” I shake my head. “I just need to survive this.”
Scrubbing a hand over his chin, he gazes at me hard. It’s the first real good look he’s given me. “Then you better rest up,” he tells me, his hands on his hips. With one last glance at me before he takes off up the stairs, he says, “Training starts in the morning.”
13
Zane
Training. What the fuck was I thinking? The only thing I’m thinking right now is that I never know what I’m thinking around this woman. She caught me off guard when we met. That wasn’t supposed to happen, and now, I’m always on my toes around her. Never sure what the hell might fly out of my mou
th next. Or hers.
No guns. Not good enough.
I like that style. I have to admit it.
I was trying to help her protect herself. She’s still sore from whatever happened before she left. And I’m making it no better by tossing her around and pushing her so hard that she falls on her ass. I have to be more careful, but a part of her feeds off of it. Shit happens when I’m forceful with her. So I’ll keep that in mind when we start training.
Training. Fuck.
I’m not sure I can teach this woman anything in her condition. She needs rest. To heal. To overcome some mental barriers. Which means that needs to be part of her training. And she isn’t gonna like that one bit.
Too fucking bad. I’m the teacher here.
She wants training? I’ll train her.
My way.
After we sleep.
I strip down to my boxers, tossing my clothes into the hamper in the closet. Then I walk around to where I usually sleep on the left side of the bed and turn the covers down. I’ve never been a middle-of-the-bed sleeper—just isn’t my style. That space on the right was always meant for someone else, someone who didn’t deserve it in the end. Someone who let me fall in love with her when she couldn’t accept who I am or the beast inside me. So I stay far, far away from it. Hanna Lee can have it.
Though, in the end, she may not be able to accept me for who I am, either.
“Do you have another blanket?” she asks over by the dresser.
Without answering, I head to the closet in the hallway and pull a blanket from the pile. It gets cold here in the winter, and without reliable heat, these things come in handy. There are plenty, so I end up grabbing three just in case. When I return to my bedroom, I hand them to her, and what she does with them stops me on my way back to my side of the bed.