Saint pats Sin on the shoulder, and together, they silently make their way around the back.
Knowing there’s no way I’m letting them get away with this, I follow. Stumbling more than once and annoyed at the pins and needles for making me clumsy, I chase them. Soon, however, all feeling returns, and I can deftly move from one shadow to the next.
With one last glance at the two parked cars, I duck around the back of the garage and slip inside the workshop. The scent of oil and gas hits me a moment I enter, and a tiny smile ghosts my lips.
It smells like freedom.
Kindness is apples and cinnamon, Cynthia’s signature scent. But oil and grease are hard work and determination—my ticket out of here.
I need to defend my future. I won’t let Sin and Saint steal it from me. This place might not bring in the big bucks, but it’s honest work when the mob isn’t involved. I won’t stand by and let them mess with it.
I crouch behind the rear wheel of a 1964 Pontiac GTO in need of an oil change and peek around the bumper.
Sin’s broad back is to me. He’s fiddling with the alarm, the small, flickering light changing from green to red before fading completely. “Done.”
After tonight, Sin won’t look at me with anything but hatred. A tiny part of me isn’t okay with it, but the rest has no cares to give. He brought this on himself the second he inserted himself in my world and decided to screw it over.
“Bro, where you at?” he calls.
There’s a soft grunt, followed by the click of a lock. The driver door of a 1968 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500 that came in this morning swings open. Saint grins. “Fuck, I’m good.”
“Let’s go.” With the push of a button, Sin activates the garage door and, slowly, it lifts.
“On it.” Saint fiddles with the wires beneath the steering wheel. A moment later, the engine roars to life, drowning out the heavy silence.
Knowing they’re seconds away from executing their plan, and wondering what the hell they want with the Mustang, I search for what I need. Guilt runs hot at what I’m about to do, but I know it needs to be done.
Creeping backward, I reach for my socket wrench lying discarded on the workbench. The metal is cool and solid, a perfect weapon. Crawling back to the Pontiac, I stand, raise the wrench above my head, and bring it down as hard as I can on the rear window.
Glass shatters in a patchwork pattern, raining shards over the trunk and back seat. The car alarm pierces my eardrums, and I wince at how damn loud it is.
“The fuck?” Saint spins in his seat. “Sin, what are you doing, man?”
“Wasn’t me.” Sin scans the space.
I drop to the floor, my throat tight and heart racing.
Saint revs the engine, letting loose a long string of curses. “Dude, come on. We need to bail. Let’s end this shit before the cops come.”
“Wait.” Deft footsteps stalk toward the Pontiac.
I clench my eyes shut, begging whatever god that might be listening that Sin doesn’t find me.
His footsteps round the front of the car.
I shuffle to the rear.
He stalks the length of the chassis.
I scramble to the opposite side.
He stops.
I hold my breath.
Then, a deep, rumbling, “Gotcha.”
Chapter Eleven
Sin
Temple falls flat on her ass, her hands braced behind her. Her tits press against her hoodie, and I can see the outline of her hard as fuck nipples. Eyes wide, she gasps
Jesus.
Saint’s right, I need to focus on what needs doing. Getting hard over Temple in the middle of a job isn’t the way to do it.
Those lips, though. Full and glossy from where she licked them. I want to sink my teeth into the bottom one. Kiss and bruise it until she’s swollen and sore. Then I’ll do the same to every inch of her lush body, until she’s covered in my bite marks. Every time she moves, it’ll be a reminder of what I’m capable of.
Of what I’m going to do.
When the time is right.
Chapter Twelve
Temple
Like a magnet finding true north, my gaze meets Sin’s.
His expression is hard. “Don’t fucking move.”
Not a chance. Jumping to my feet, I sprint for the exit.
“Sin, let’s go,” Saint hollers, revving the engine. “The cops will be here any minute.”
I don’t hear Sin’s response, my fight or flight instinct demanding I pump my legs and propel my arms.
But as I reach the rear fender of the Mustang, strong hands grip my waist and spin me around.
Tall.
Powerful.
Gorgeous.
Sin steals my air. “Get in the car.”
I try to escape his hold by ducking under his arms, but he blocks my every move. “Let me go.”
“Get in the motherfucking car, Temple.” He grabs me by the nape. “Now.”
At his touch, dark memories warn of the danger that follows forced restraint. A part of me wants my mind to turn static, to drown in the black void so I don’t have to deal with any of this. Only, another voice calls Sin closer, wanting him to touch, claim, own my traitorous body.
What the hell?
My skin burns where he touches me, contrasting with the shivers dancing down my spine. Shocked and confused, I stare.
His nostrils flare. “Listen to me. I don’t have time for this shit. Get your ass in the car before I put you there. Understand?”
Strangely, rather than freak me out, his threat clears my jumbled thoughts. Not enough to dull my instincts, but enough to know he’s no immediate threat.
Acting on instinct, I scan the garage.
My situation isn’t good.
The alarm booms, the Pontiac’s rear window is trashed, and the only exit is blocked by a goddamn warrior holding me hostage against a hot-wired Mustang. Either I try my odds at escaping, call the cops and hope they aren’t on the Brandts’ payroll, or do as Sin says and get in the car.
It’ll give me more time to figure out my next move if I do as he says. But I won’t give in easily. There’s fight in me yet. Struggling against his hold, I try once more to free myself.
Sin’s eyes flash before he opens the back door, picks me up, and throws me inside.
Scrambling upright, I take in my new position, looking for a way out.
“Knew you were trouble,” Saint mutters.
I’m too busy crawling to the other side of the car and working the lock to respond. Yanking the door handle and cursing the fuck out of child safety locks, I start to wind down the window. Not because I want to escape right now, but I want to have the choice when I’m ready.
Before it’s even a third of the way open, the scent of gasoline floods the garage. It’s stronger this time, like someone upturned a fifty-five-gallon drum close by.
Frantic, I spin in my seat. “Where’s Sin?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Answer the damn question,” I yell. “Where is he?”
The passenger door opens, and with more grace than a man his size should have, Sin gets in. “Let’s boost.”
I sink back into the soft leather seat, relieved, frustrated, and confused. Why should I care that he almost got left behind? Sin’s a problem I need to eradicate from my life, not someone I care about.