18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
HARLOW
My poor little heart slams against my ribs as I press the throttle of Lynx’s truck to the floor and speed down the open highway.
Admittedly, I’m in shock that my plan worked considering it hinged on whether Lynx would fall for it.
As it turns out, he’s just like every other man. And even though that just worked to my advantage, I hate him for it.
Once I’m a safe distance from his house, I slow to a reasonable speed and think my next steps through.
What I’m about to do is dangerous. One might even call it stupid.
But I’m not backing down. I’m not hiding away and letting the hitman who was hired to kill me lead me along under false pretenses. No matter how convincing or attractive he may be.
No. I’m taking matters into my own hands because the reality is, I’m going to die, one way or another. Whether it be at Lynx’s hands or someone else’s, death is imminent.
The only remaining question is how many of my demons will I drag to hell with me when I go?
Veering to the right, I pull into a truck stop on the side of the highway and park in the furthest spot from any other vehicles, searching my surroundings for any curious onlookers before rifling through my duffel bag for the little black dress and heels I keep in my locker in case I need something more formal than my stripping attire.
With shaky hands, I slide the driver’s seat all the way back, peel out of my jeans and T-shirt, and stuff myself into the dress, adjusting my cleavage in the sweetheart neckline and smoothing the lace bodice down my stomach.
In the rearview mirror, I apply a slick of ruby lipstick, dab on some mascara, and slip my mother’s rosary over my head, the cross dangling between my breasts.
Then I navigate back to the road and haul ass down the highway.
Sorry, boys. But this is my game now.
I’m dealing the cards. And I’m making the fucking rules.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Drive.
A soft hymn echoes through the grandiose church, the holy sound echoing throughout the vaulted ceilings. Light filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the stained glass casting a kaleidoscope of colors over the wooden pews and paisley-carpeted aisle.
The architecture is beautiful and elaborate. But it’s also a mirror image of the hell I narrowly escaped from.
Closing my eyes briefly, I flex my hands at my sides and rein in the urge to burn the place to the fucking ground.
When I open them again, I focus on the perfectly polished mahogany casket at the end of the aisle. It’s closed, of course, Rhys’s remains having been found in several pieces and picked apart by vultures.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
Exhaling a calming breath, I saunter toward the shiny wooden box, my heels sinking silently into the plush carpet.
I don’t need to scan the crowd to know all eyes are on me. I’m a mystery. A strange woman in a black dress cut low in the neckline and high on one thigh, my identity concealed behind a lace veil I borrowed from Sage.
I hear the whispers as I approach the casket.
That must be his mistress.
No, it’s his estranged daughter.
Both assumptions are wrong because I’m something much, much worse. A dirty little secret that he’d hoped to take to the grave.
Ignoring the rumors and judgmental gazes carving a path over my body, I stop at the casket and stare down at the closed lid.
Rage brews inside me, and all I want to do is pry open the slab of wood, pull the gun from where it’s strapped to the inside of my thigh, and shoot him in his cold, beatless heart just to be sure he’s really fucking dead.
Rot in hell, asshole.
Exhaling a controlled breath, I make the sign of a cross over my chest and move on, taking a seat at the back of the church so I can make a quick exit when the service comes to its end.
Crossing my legs at the ankle, I straighten my spine and keep my chin held high as I scan the crowd.
It doesn’t take me long to locate the person I’m here for.
Thomas. Rhys’s younger brother.
He’s taller than most others. Better looking, too, his naturally light brown hair turning slightly ash in color, a stark contrast to his murky, black soul.
And his eyes? Pinned on me, of course, a deep frown pulling at his clean-shaven face.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Reveal.
Flipping my veil over my head, I meet his gaze. And I fucking smile because his stunned expression is priceless.
He raises his right hand to drag it through his hair, the large ruby ring on his middle finger winking at me beneath the sunlight streaming through the nearby windows.
My cheekbone stings with a memory as the priest takes the podium and the room falls silent. I keep Thomas in my line of sight the entire time. No way will I allow him to slip away and catch me off guard.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I’m a dead girl.
When the priest finishes his speech and Rhys’s grieving mother has given her eulogy, I stand and exit the nave before anyone else. Feeling a dark presence at my back every step of the way, I pick up my pace and take a sharp left turn down a long, empty corridor.
Glancing over my shoulder, I confirm my suspicion. Thomas is following close behind, wicked intent plastered all over his smug face.
My plan is working. But he’s closing the gap quickly. Too quickly.
With no time to waste, I tuck my chin and keep moving. Behind my sternum, my heart beats a staccato, my hands clammy but my mind crystal clear.
Efficiency is key right now. If I’m not swift and smart about this, he’ll corner me in the bathroom and beat me to a pulp the way I remember he enjoyed doing before wrapping his bony fingers around my throat and squeezing until everything goes black.
Joke’s on him because I’m the predator now, vicious and starving and ruthless.
Revenge has poisoned my system. And the only antidote is spilled blood.
Besides, if I don’t do this—if I don’t take back control of my life—then I’ll be dead within a week.
Thomas continues to close in on me, just as I had planned. One more turn, and I’ll slip into the bathroom and shoot him where he stands.
The last thing he’ll see before taking a nice long dirt nap alongside his brother is my smiling face.
But just as I turn the final corner, something large and concrete-like slams into me and I’m sent careening sideways, all the oxygen forced from my lungs in a heady whoosh.
I open my mouth to scream but am stopped short when a hand seals over my mouth.
Before I have a chance to so much as blink, I’m dragged into a pitch-black room.
It smells of mothballs and floor cleaner. A utility or storage closet, I think.
I kick and thrash, adrenaline coursing through me like liquid heat. But my cries are muffled, and I can’t reach my fucking weapon because my arms are pinned at my sides.
Whoever has me drags me along, further and further away from the door.
I continue to fight, but I’m so tired. Physically and mentally I’m so. Fucking. Tired.
A dark thought crosses my mind. Perhaps it would be easier to just let them win. To give up and dissociate while they have their way with me one last time. Surely, they’d gift me the sweet release of death soon after.
And a welcome gift it would be.
My entire life has been a struggle. More times than I can count, I wanted it to end.
And now I’m back in that place again. That cold, dark basement with the rats and cot and chains. My ankle is raw from my shackles, and the space between my legs is caked in dry blood and semen.
All the hope I’ve been clinging to withers away like a dying rose.
I accepted my fate long ago. But there was still a small part of me that thought I could conquer this. Take revenge on the men who destroyed me.
God knows they’d do it again if they could.
But then there’s a voice. It’s in my ear, masculine and soothing and warming the side of my neck.
“Shhh, pretty girl. I’ve got you now.”
I inhale sharply through my nose, filling my lungs with the familiar scent of limes and cedarwood.
Lynx.
How’d he find me so fast?
His truck. Of course he’d have it GPS’d. How did I not think of that when I took off with it?
With no effort at all, he hauls me deeper into the dark. Doors creek and hinges groan as we descend down a set of stairs into the church basement. The air grows damp and cool, smelling of wet soil and mildew.
He shoves me against a wall. My palms flatten to the cold, rough surface at my sides as my chest rises and falls with panicked breaths.
I can’t see a thing, but somehow the world around me is spinning, my heart threatening to explode from my chest and splatter itself across the walls.
“Breathe, Harlow.”
I suck in a greedy gulp of air and hold it, exhaling slowly through my mouth as Lynx’s hands fly over me in search of a weapon. His touch isn’t gentle or reassuring. It’s frantic and greedy and angry, and I can’t fucking think straight while he’s groping me.
A frustrated groan echoes through the hollow basement when he locates the gun strapped to the inside of my thigh. I hear a click and thud as he unloads it with expert efficiency and drops it to the floor.
“Lynx,” I rush out.
He removes my veil and flings it off to the side. Without it, I can make out the faint outline of his face. The tick of his jaw. The darkness in his eyes.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, little killer.”
He pins both of my wrists over my head with one of his hands while the other grips my hip, pressing me flat against the wall.
A bead of sweat forms on my lower back as he seals his body to mine.
He’s all hard to my soft. Hot to my cold.
So tall and imposing that I’d be terrified if I didn’t believe with all the marrow in my bones that he’s not going to hurt me.
Perhaps it’s stupid of me to hold on to such hope, but what choice do I have at this point?