Chapter 11
Eleven
River
The first thing I hear is screaming.
Not mine.
It’s male.
And sounds like it’s coming from very far away.
Groaning softly, I try to lift my head, but it’s spinning and my cheek aches from where the jerk backhanded me.
Twice.
And tasered me.
Also twice.
A loud blast rents through the air and my eyes snap open. I jerk against the zip ties binding me to the cold metal chair, my mind clearing, panic surging through me.
Trapped. Overpowered. Beaten. No way out.
For one terrible second, I can’t breathe.
Then another blast echoes through the warehouse and I realize what they are.
Gunshots.
I yank against my restraints to no avail.
There’s shouting, more gunshots, pounding footsteps, movement closing in.
“Shit,” I hiss, fighting harder, doing it so violently that the plastic cuts into my wrists, blood starts dripping down my hands, so violently that the chair tips to the side, hovering on one pair of legs, suspended in space for one long moment before I realize I’m going down.
I brace, eyes slamming closed as the chair falls, waiting for the impact of the concrete to come.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, I’m caught mid-air and I hear, “Easy now, little hen.”
Relief slams into me so intensely it takes my breath away.
He came.
Thorn came for me.
Then I realize there are bad guys around and bullets flying and…oh my God, he could get hurt.
“You have to get out of here,” I hiss.
There’s a tug and then my wrists are suddenly free. “Take a breath, sweetheart, and let’s get you out of here.”
“You have to go. You have—”
The warehouse door slams open hard enough to bounce against the opposite wall.
Two men rush inside. I scream, but Thorn just lifts his gun, and…
Then the threat is gone.
He turns back to me and I flinch. Not at the gun in his hand, but at the realization that slams into me.
Because as insane as it sounds, I know that Thorn isn’t a threat. Deep inside, I know it.
Before I can tell him that, before I can explain, he freezes. And God, his face hurts me to look at. Slowly, he shoves the gun in the waistband of his jeans and rasps, “I won’t hurt you, little hen.”
There’s blood across his knuckles.
That gun in his jeans.
But he won’t hurt me.
He won’t.
“River,” he pushes out, his voice like gravel. “I—”
“I know you won’t hurt me, Thorn.”
He stills, as though he was expecting to hear something else. Then his face softens and his lips part…but before he can speak, another round of gunfire echoes through the warehouse. That prompts him into motion and he bends, cutting through the restraints around my ankles.
Sensation rushes painfully through my numb feet.
Thorn’s arm slips around my shoulders. “Careful, now,” he murmurs.
I grunt as I stand.
“Are you hurt?”
I shake my head automatically. “I-I’m fine.”
Thorn’s jaw tightens hard enough to send a muscle flickering across his cheek, but he doesn’t say anything, just guides me out into the hall where Pascal and a group of other men dressed in black and outfitted with heavy vests are standing, their guns at the ready and a pile of zip-tied men at their feet.
Unfortunately, the guy from the parking garage isn’t among them.
“You good?” he asks Thorn.
“Not at fucking all,” Thorn says. Then without preamble adds, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
The honesty startles me.
Pascal glances over, his eyes assessing. Then he nods once like that was the exact answer he expected. “I’ll lead. You follow.” A second later, he puts words to action and we’re winding through the corridors, slipping out into the dark evening air.
“Sergio?” Thorn asks when we reach a blacked-out SUV.
Pascal shakes his head.
Thorn curses softly, looks over at the building like he’s going to rush back in.
Pascal clamps a hand on his shoulder. “Attie’s crew is handling cleanup, so we need to move.”
That muscle in Thorn’s cheek starts flickering again.
“You need to get to her someplace safe.”
“You can drive her to Brooks’s—”
“That’s not an option right now,” Pascal says. “Take her to your apartment.”
It takes me a second to process what he’s said.
What it might mean.
Fear tears through me and I blurt, “Is Briar okay?”
Thorn jerks, like he’s just realizing it too. “What happened?”
Pacal’s glances at me. “She’s good.” Then he turns to Thorn and the two men share a long look. “There’s a been…a complication. Now get River out of here.”
“Pascal—” I begin.
“She’s okay, River.” He looks at me, his eyes filled with truth. “I promise.”
I nod.
“But right now, I need you guys to get out of here.”
“Okay,” I whisper, sliding my hand into Thorn’s.
His entire body stills for half a second. Then his fingers close carefully around mine and we climb into the back seat of the SUV.
The ride to his apartment feels strangely anticlimactic.
The roads are quiet.
And so are the men in the car.
But I don’t realize I’m shaking until Thorn quietly removes his coat and drapes it around my shoulders.
It’s warm.
Heavy.
And smells like man and spice and him.
I curl into it as I stare out the window, watching the world go by. It doesn’t take long to reach the penthouse, but as we park and get out, exhaustion has settled into my bones and pain is nipping at my heels.
“Let’s go,” the driver says, pulling open my door.
Thorn falls in beside me and a moment later, we’re inside, all riding up in the private elevator together.
The doors open and the men step off, fanning out.
“Stay here,” the driver orders. “We’ll make sure it’s clear.”
Thorn nods…just as Violet comes sprinting over, claws scrabbling on the floor.
“Meow!”
A startled laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.
Thorn freezes instantly beside me.
I crouch as Violet launches herself against my legs, demanding my full attention. “Hi, baby,” I whisper shakily, stroking my hand over her silky soft fur. She starts purring and I cuddle her close.
“River,” Thorn begins.
“All clear,” the driver says. “We’ll keep watch downstairs.”
“Go on then.”
They slip out and he follows them toward the panel, doing something to the elevator before turning back to me. “You’ll be safe now,” he says quietly.
“I’m know.”
Violet rubs her head against my chin then jumps out of my arms and I stand.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
My mouth drops open. “What can you possibly have to be sorry for?”
“It’s my fault.” He swallows. “You being taken.”
I frown. “How can it possibly be your fault?”
He reaches up slowly, pauses with his fingers an inch from my uninjured cheek. Silently asking for permission to touch me. Silently giving me the opportunity to say no.
I lean in, press my cheek to his fingertips.
He shifts, cupping my jaw, and I feel the warm roughness of his palm in my soul.
“You came for me,” I whisper.
Pain flashes visibly across his face. “I should’ve stopped them from taking you in the first place.” The raw self-hatred in those words steals my breath but before I can ask him what that means, he says, “They came after you because of me.”
“Wh-what?”
His jaw tightens. “They took you because of me.” A beat. “Who I was. Who I am.”
“Who were you?” I whisper. “Who are you?”
Emotion ripples through his expression and he exhales softly. “A monster.”
A monster? No. I’ve known a monster. I was married to one, I survived him. This man in front of me—
“You are not a monster.”
He shakes his head, starts to pull back, but I cover his hand with mine and step closer—so close the toes of our shoes brush, so close I can feel the strength of him, the heat of him.
“River—”
I squeeze. “You’re not.”
His forehead lowers slowly against mine and he exhales. “You don’t know me, little hen.”
“I know enough.”
“River.”
I shift closer. Then closer still. I shift until our bodies touch.
And it feels…
Good. Right. Perfect.
Like finally giving into something I’ve wanted but pushed down for months now.
Maybe because tonight burned away my fear.
Maybe because I’ve watched Thorn over these weeks, because I’ve learned who he truly is.
Maybe because I’m tired of being afraid of this man.
He’s not a monster.
He’s not.
I tilt my head up, part my lips and—
Stop. Because I can’t quite touch my mouth to his, can’t quite close that last inch between us. His hand shifts, sliding into my hair, gently cupping the back of my head.
“Thorn,” I murmur, the yearning in my voice audible even to my own ears.
His eyes flare with heat, with need, with want. Then he leans in, his breath brushing over my lips. “Need you to give me the words, little hen.”
“Kiss me,” I whisper. “Please kiss me, Thorn.”
A groan rumbles up in his throat and then his mouth is on mine and…
It’s soft. Gentle. Not hungry. Not possessive.
Careful.
Like Thorn is terrified I might break beneath his hands.
And that…God, it pisses me off.
I’m a survivor. I’m not breakable. I’m not weak.
I dive my hands into his hair, part my lips, and then…I kiss him. With all the need I’ve been burying, with all the yearning I’ve been shoving down, with all the heat that burns in my belly as our bodies press together.
I moan, slip my tongue into his mouth, and the kiss turns frantic, as though he’s feeling all those things too.
His hand slides from my cheek, down my arm, looping around my waist, banding around me—
Pain slices through me and I whimper.
Immediately, he releases me, steps back.
Dammit.
I open my mouth to explain. He couldn’t have known about the bruises on my ribs. He didn’t mean to hurt me.
But one look at his eyes and I know he’s not going to listen.
And that feels…
God, that feels like shit.
“I’ll bring you in a first aid kit,” he says quietly. “Get that cut bandaged. Then,” he adds, his gaze sliding away from mine, guilt clearly riding him hard, “you should rest.”
The words are reasonable.
And I fucking hate them.
But Thorn doesn’t take them back.
Instead, he spins on his heel and disappears.