47. Maverick
MAVERICK
PARDON ME
The sight of Clara standing in the middle of the cellar, locked in this sick bastard’s arms with a knife pressed against her throat… Fuck, I’ll never be able to unsee it.
Evans’ lips pull back in a snarl. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he growls, his voice barely recognizable. “She’s ours! Ours!”
Time slows. I can see Clara’s chest rising and falling rapidly against him. Can see the bruises forming on her neck, the cut above her left eye, the bruise on her cheek. Her watery eyes meet mine, and the absolute, utter terror in her expression threatens to break me.
I keep my gun trained on them, knowing there’s no way I can take the shot—not without hurting her. And this fucker knows it.
“Drop the fucking gun, Rhodes. You know you won’t hurt her,” he says as he tightens his arm around her torso, causing her to wince and groan.
“I can’t do that, Evans,” I say, struggling to keep my voice calm despite the rage thrashing through my body. I can’t afford to fuck this up, can’t afford for him to press that knife deeper into her skin. I have to stay calm.
Evans’ attention snaps to something behind me. His eyes are wild—feral—the mask of civility completely gone. He doesn’t even look like the same man I met with this morning.
“Federal agents!” Spencer’s voice booms from above as he, Cruz, and Morrison thunder down the stairs. Their pursuit comes to a startling halt when they take in the scene before them.
Clara held against a madman with a knife at her throat. My gun pointed at the two of them with nowhere to shoot.
“Drop your weapons! Don’t come any fucking closer,” Evans warns, his voice full of a lethality I don’t want to test.
“James,” I call, drawing his gaze back to me. “Put the knife down, James.” Not letting go of the gun, I raise my free hand in a show of acquiescence. With the addition of Spencer, Cruz, and Morrison, there’s no telling what Evans will do.
I won’t risk it. Won’t risk her .
“No!” he shouts, tightening his grip on both Clara and the knife. A trickle of blood beads on her skin. “Not James! Samson! Clara’s Samson!”
My brows furrow when he calls himself Samson.
The realization hits me that he didn’t say Clara was his when he saw me.
He said she was ours. Before I can question it further, Clara’s eyes catch mine, and I don’t like the look in them.
She gives me the most minute shake of her head, then places a hand on Evans’ arm.
“Samson.” Clara’s sweet voice sounds hoarse, broken. “Please. Please don’t do this,” she begs. “I’ll go with you.”
“The fuck you will,” I growl.
There’s no fucking way. There isn’t a world that exists where I’d let him take her from me.
I won’t fucking lose her.