Chapter 9 Wren #2
It sounded stronger in my head but came out a pathetic whisper, wobbly and without weight. I consider clearing my throat and trying again, but then he steps toward me.
“I’ll scream.”
His eyes flash black. “Good.”
He’s closing in on my clumsy retreat. A few more steps and he’s within touching distance—grabbing distance, judging by the angry blaze in his eyes—so I do the only thing I can think of.
With my mother’s words echoing in my ears, I drop to the ground.
Damp seeps through the back of my thighs. Pebbles dig between my shoulder blades. I try not to think of the damage I’ve done to this cute dress, and squeeze my eyes shut, forcing every muscle in my body to relax.
His footsteps stop for less than a heartbeat. Then they start up again, as lazy and heavy as they were when following me down my hallway. It seems he’s never in a hurry to eat his prey.
When the tip of his shoes graze my hip and his shadow darkens the inside of my eyelids, I stop breathing.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he growls.
“Playing dead,” I whisper.
Christ. Why did I tell him that? It was an instinct, a flinch to the sharp edge of his question, rooted in fear that silence or a lie would only anger him more.
Dead bodies are heavier. They’re limp and floppy and are much harder to move than a living being. Flattening myself against the asphalt felt like a great idea ten seconds ago, but now that I’m sinking into the dirt and growing colder by the second, I can’t help but feel foolish.
My gaze snags on his fist as it clenches and flexes. “Don’t make me do this,” he murmurs.
“Do what?”
With a rough grip on my thigh, and another on my hip, I’m levitating. He slings me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and when I open my eyes, I’m staring down the length of his back.
Great. Now what? Politely declining and playing dead didn’t work. I guess I’ll have to give the whole fighting thing a go.
I kick my legs against his chest; he pins them in place with his forearm. I beat my fists on his back; he doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps his leisurely pace as he strides toward the car, as though he fireman carries unwilling participants around every day of the week.
God, forgive me—it’s not ladylike to bite, but given the circumstances, I’m sure he’ll give me a hall pass. I twist my head in an attempt to sink my teeth into his neck, but my gaze snags on the open car trunk, and my jaw grows slack.
Is that?
Surely not.
Oh, my God. It is.
Under the dim light of the streetlamp, I can just about make out what’s in the trunk—rope, a roll of trash bags, and some sort of ominous duffel bursting at the seams.
That’s a murder kit, isn’t it? A crime scene waiting to happen. All it’s missing is the victim. Me.
“Stop!” I squeak, trying to wriggle off his shoulder and onto the ground. “I’ll go in the front! I’ll go in the front!”
Like hell I will, but I’ll say anything for him to put me down, then I can try my luck with the last option—outrunning him, broken ankles be damned. It’s still a better alternative than being bundled into the back of Gabriel Visconti’s murder wagon.
He’s impervious to my pleas. They turn from screams to yelps to flat-out begging once my calves press against the cold rear bumper, and all of them fall on deaf ears.
“Please,” I whimper.
His hands slide from my thigh to my hips.
“I’ll do anything!”
He tugs me down until my chest is flush with his.
My hands fly out to grab his face. His beard scratches my palms as my fingers dig into his cheekbones. “But I saved your life!” I yell.
Something about those five words has an effect on him, and the world stops turning. Gabriel freezes under my touch, and the weight of a bad decision seizes my muscles. My hands slide back down to my side, and I stare, petrified, at the ink between his spread collar.
I don’t dare look up. If his expression is anything like what it was when I said those words earlier, I’m too close to him now to survive it.
As the suspense expands and contracts around us, I become aware of all the places my body touches his.
Warmth bleeds from his torso to mine; the hard clasp of his watch digs into the small of my back.
He’s hot where I’m cold, breaths steady between my ragged pants.
Our heartbeats, they’re out of sync. Clashing against one another’s chest, his tempo slow and strong, mine skittish and tripping over itself.
Feeling his pulse does nothing to humanize him. It only brings a sour taste to my mouth, because for the second time in as many minutes, my thoughts turn to my mother.
Heartbeats always remind me of her.
All thoughts pop like soap bubbles when his forearms loosen around my waist, and my body grates against his. Every button of his shirt snags on my satin dress on the way down, until my feet finally find purchase.
He retreats, leaving me just enough room to breathe.
I steal a tentative glance up at him from beneath my lashes.
He rubs a hand over his jaw, as if my touch was dirty, and his gaze floods with a look of loathing.
Under this orange lighting, I can’t tell if it’s for me or for himself, but it’s a look so venomous it could kill.
But no look in the world is as sickening as his next command.
“Walk.”