She stands there, quivering, accepting like a martyr.
How far can he go in seven minutes? Pretty fucking far.
He does something I can’t see, some infinitesimal movement, some flick of his long, able fingers, and she whimpers. The sound slices through me—another knife wound. It’s almost enough to stagger me, except I’m intent on my goal. His neck. I want to wrap my fists around it.
I cross the cell without making a sound.
Even so he should sense me. He normally would, but he’s distracted by whatever he sees peering down her shirt. For a terrible moment I’m jealous of him. Jealous, as if I would ever take a woman by force. And then I’m on him. His eyes flash at the last minute, the final moment when I could kill him—and a knife arcs through the air. I fasten my fists around his neck, prepared to squeeze the light out of him. I don’t care that he’s stabbed me. Don’t care, don’t care. The adrenaline keeps the pain away. Except he hasn’t stabbed me, after all. Instead he’s put the knife at her throat.
“You bastard,” I say, panting through my loss. I could kill him right now. I could suffocate him in a matter of seconds, but the knife might pierce through the woman’s soft skin. That tender neck—sliced open.
Every cell in my body revolts at the idea. No.
He manages a feral smile. “How badly do you want me dead, North?”
Badly enough to kill an innocent woman? No. Of course not. Never. Except I can’t quite bring myself to release him. The possibility hovers in the dank air. I could kill him. She would be—what? A casualty of war? A statistic? It’s not like Adam has better plans for her.
The difference between Adam and me shrinks to a pinpoint. I don’t kill innocent women. He wouldn’t hesitate. And yet here I am, contemplating, contemplating. Trying to have a moral conversation with myself with half my lungs blown out.
“Do it,” Adam says, his dark eyes wild with reckless encouragement.
Maybe he would get pleasure from turning me into a monster. Even that’s not enough to make me stop. I could kill this man right now, take my revenge, end this once and for all.
The woman must sense my indecision, because she quivers. I’m close enough to feel it, practically wrapped around her in my bid to reach her attacker. In fact, it’s almost, almost an embrace. If you could ignore the metal bars between us. Or the knife at her throat.
“Please,” she whispers.
The forlorn note in her voice reaches into some old, compassionate part of me. It’s almost as if she expects me to do it. As if begging me is a mere formality, something for me to ignore. Why does she value her life so little? It makes me angry. Angry at her, angry at Adam. Most of all, angry at myself for even considering snuffing out such a delicate light.
I wrench myself back from the bars, stumbling, half-falling. I’m back on the concrete where I belong. It’s over for me, but not for her. She’ll have to put up with Adam’s pawing. She’ll have to—
There’s another protesting squeak of the cell door. Then she’s shoved inside, landing on top of me. I catch her, this warm, lush woman. Alive. So alive in an abandoned church that reeks of death.
Even the pain of her slight weight against my wound can’t take the pleasure away.
She scrambles away from me as Adam slams the cell door closed. A turn of the key and it’s locked. She’s afraid of me, trapped with a man who considered killing her not seconds before.
“Seven minutes,” Adam says, sounding breathless. He’s still riding that endorphin high that comes from almost dying. Sometimes I think the man lives for those moments. He tosses something through the bars. A water bottle. I’m on it before I can think, a ravenous, mindless animal. I should give it to her. She’ll need it soon enough. And she’s the one who earned it. But I’m seconds from my own death, breathless on my own endorphin high. I have no illusions about myself. I do live for these moments.
CHAPTER FIVE
Holly
He drinks the water until the bottle crinkles beneath his hand. Adam’s neck almost crinkled the same way—broken. He would have died in front of me. The man in the cell holds the water bottle above him for seconds; one, two, three, four, five. He’s taking every last drop.
That almost makes it worth it.
Then he collapses onto the grimy floor, passed out.
I sit there until my breathing returns to normal. Then I scoot toward the man and put his head in my lap. At least it’s better than the stone. Probably I shouldn’t bother. I’ll never forget the terror of being caught between two violent men. Never forget the certainty that I would die. But it’s easier to be callous in theory. Much harder to withhold mercy in the moment. We are two broken humans right now. All we have is each other, and I can hold him while he sleeps.
I’m asleep when he finally wakes, slumped over and moving in and out of consciousness. Awareness returns to him suddenly. He moves with shocking speed for an injured man.
He flips me onto my back. I land with a thud that knocks the wind out of my lungs. He looms over me. Even in the shadows I can see that much. His eyes glitter. His white teeth are bared. And those hands, those lethal hands wrap around my throat.
“Your name,” he says, his voice hard as the stone beneath me.
“Holland,” I gasp out. “I’m Holland Frank.”
He collapses to his side, as if all the strength spilled out of him. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Sorry, angel. Sorry. Sorry. I almost killed you.”
I don’t know whether he’s talking about just now or hours ago, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s sorry, and he’s the only human comfort I have right now.
“You should rest,” I manage to say.
“Bossy.” He sounds amused. “Of course I’d have a bossy angel of death.”
“A what?”
“Holland Frank. Why does that name sound familiar?”
I’m still stuck on the words bossy angel of death. “I don’t know.”
“You do know. And you have money, you said. Who are you?”
“I’m a children’s book author. Not that I’d expect you to read my books.” Unless he has children. The thought of this man having children is unnerving. Unsettling. They’re too innocent for the likes of him. “And I’m not an angel of death. Nor am I bossy.”
“An author, huh? What’s a book you wrote?”
“It’s not bossy to suggest that an injured man should rest.”
“Something about a fairy.”
That shocks me into silence. For about a second. “Yes, a tooth fairy.”
“Does it teach them to put their teeth under their pillow?”
Of course he would assume that boring, safe old me would write something mundane. My plain clothes and hair didn’t even factor in. He understood how ordinary I am from talking in the dark. Only my books are not ordinary. “Not exactly.”
“Where, then?” It’s almost like he’s teasing me, if he weren’t on the brink of death. “In their dresser drawer? Should they throw it in the trash?”
“It’s not an instruction manual,” I say, my voice sharper than it needs to be.
My voice is always sharper than it needs to be. I’m full of quills that prick anyone who comes near. Even strangers who are trapped with me. Being kidnapped hasn’t softened me any.