Chapter 4
Jillian
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Jillian woke with a jolt when the warmth left her hand. Her eyes flew open, heart hammering, breath catching in her throat. For a second, she didn't know where she was. The dim room masked the truth from her.
Then she saw him, and everything came rushing back, overwhelming her.
Her kidnapper was called Moe. That's what the man in the restaurant had called him. She was determined to remember every detail in case she escaped.
He stood beside the bed, straightening to his full height. His hair fell around his shoulders in waves, his tattoos stark against his forearms. He looked even bigger in the morning light, even more dangerous.
She rubbed her palm. He'd held her hand. All night.
She scrambled back, wiping her palm on her hip like she could erase the warmth he'd left behind. Her skin tingled where he'd touched her, a phantom heat she didn't want.
"Get up." He motioned. "You need to eat breakfast. I gotta go to work."
Work? Nothing about him looked like he belonged in a place with rules or schedules or clocks. But he said it like it was normal. Like dragging a girl into a strange town and sleeping beside her with his hand wrapped around hers all night was just another part of his day.
She pushed herself upright, her muscles stiff, her throat tight. "I... I have to go home," she whispered. "I work too. I have a job. They'll notice if I don't show up."
That was a lie. They wouldn't notice. Not until Monday. And even then, they'd just assume she quit. There was a high turnover rate at the nursing home. It wasn't an easy job to care for those who were dying.
It was depressing and sad. Most days she walked back to the house wondering if life was one misery after another and then you die. The other days she spent telling herself that she didn't know anything about life.
She wasn't even old enough to drink alcohol. Yet, she was pushed into a position of taking care of herself and her mom. She had no idea if she was failing or who to ask for help.
She kept the truth about her mom locked behind her teeth. He didn't need to know. He didn't deserve to know.
Moe stared at her with those flat, dead, steel-colored eyes, as if he were trying to figure out which part of her mattered and which didn't.
"You're not going home," he said simply.
Her stomach dropped. "Please."
"There's food in the kitchen. Eat," he cut in, turning away from her. "Then we can talk once we get to work."
Talk? He wasn't giving her a chance to say anything. He held her hand all night like a shackle. It was impossible to run away. Even if she could, she spent the whole night afraid to move, afraid to breathe wrong, afraid he'd wake up and decide she wasn't worth keeping.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cool floor. Her clothes were wrinkled from sleeping in them. Her hair was a tangled mess from the kidnapping, the ride, and going through the storm. Her eyes were swollen from crying and stung when she blinked.
Moe walked toward the kitchen, his steps heavy, unhurried. He didn't look back to see if she followed. He didn't need to. She wasn't stupid enough to run again. Not yet. Not when she didn't know where she was. Not when she didn't know what he'd do if she tried.
They were obviously somewhere near people. There was an older man at the restaurant. There had to be people who worked with Moe. A glimmer of hope that she could seek help grew inside her, waking her fully.
She stood slowly, her legs trembling, and followed him down the short hallway. He pointed toward the bathroom. She slipped inside and hurried to pee and wash her hands and face. Ignoring the sad sight in the mirror, she walked out and joined Moe in the kitchen.
He stopped at the counter, pulling out a pan and the loaf of bread she'd seen him find last night. He cracked eggs into a bowl, the sound sharp in the silence.
Jillian hovered near the doorway and wrapped her arms around herself. She didn't know where to stand. She didn't know how to breathe. She didn't know how to exist in a place like this.
He glanced at her once, his gaze flicking over her face, her posture, the fear she couldn't hide. Something in his expression shifted. It was just a flicker, gone as fast as it came.
"Sit," he said.
She sat.
The toast was dry, the jam too sweet, and the orange juice had pulp. But she ate every bite because Moe watched her the entire time, those eyes tracking every movement like he was waiting for her to bolt.
When she finished, he stood and jerked his chin toward the door. "Come on."
She followed him outside, her stomach protesting the food. Her clothes, which she'd worn to work before she was kidnapped, now made her itch.
Outside, she looked behind her. The road was empty. It was her first look at Everstill in daylight. The sky was pale, washed-out blue without a cloud.
Two men mowed the lawn outside a building that resembled a courthouse, with its whitewashed exterior and a flag flying on the front lawn. Another man stood outside the gas station, leaning against the wall like he was waiting for a car to drive up. They all looked sketchy.
There were no cars. No dogs. No kids. No women.
Her breath hitched, and she looked forward.
Moe didn't slow. He kept her hand in his, his grip firm, guiding her down the street like she was something he owned. When they reached a small store, he pushed the door open and flipped on the lights. The fluorescent bulbs flickered to life, humming softly.
He let go of her hand.
The sudden absence made her sway, her fingers curling reflexively like they missed the warmth. She hated that.
Moe walked down the first aisle, glancing back at her. "Today, you're sweeping the floor."
She blinked. "What?"
He stopped, turned, and looked at her like she was slow. "You know how to sweep, right?"
A scoff escaped her before she could stop it. "Yes," she said through tight lips.
He handed her a broom and a dustpan. She took them with stiff fingers, her jaw clenched. He didn't say anything else. He just turned away and started organizing the shelves, moving cans and boxes with methodical precision.
And with no real purpose. The shelves were full. All the labels faced forward.
She started sweeping, pushing the bristles along the floor, barely finding any dust she could move into small piles. The floor wasn't even dirty.
Male customers came in, drawing Moe away from the shelves. They nodded at Moe, spoke quietly, and bought things she didn't recognize. Moe helped them, but he never left her out of his sight. Every time she looked up, his eyes were on her. Watching. Measuring. Making sure she didn't disappear.
She tried not to look at him, but she couldn't help it. He moved with a kind of controlled violence, like every step was a decision. Like he was always one breath away from snapping.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She gasped and spun around, the broom clattering to the floor. A tall man stood behind her. He was taller than anyone she'd ever seen before. His brows lowered, and he stared at her.
"You came here last night." He leaned over her, making her back arch. "How'd you get in?"
She blinked. "I—I don't know what you mean."
"You arrived in Everstill," he whispered. "How'd you get here? Did you come through the storm? Did you survive the veil? Can you leave?"
Her mouth went dry. "I don't understand."
She hadn't come willingly. Moe kidnapped her, but she wasn't going to ask this man for help. He scared her.
He stepped closer, desperation flickering in his eyes. "Can you go back? If you can go back, can you take someone with you? Can you—?"
"Rex," bellowed Moe.
Rex straightened to his full height.
Moe stood a few feet away, his jaw tight, his eyes cold. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The threat was in the stillness of his body, the way his hands curled at his sides.
"Leave," Moe said.
Rex stood even taller. He had to be almost seven feet tall. "I was just—"
"Now."
Rex backed away, eyes darting between them. He slipped out of the store without another word.
Jillian's pulse thundered in her ears. She looked at Moe. His gaze intensified, and her stomach dropped.
He walked toward her slowly, his eyes locked on hers, and she realized with a cold rush that he wasn't messing around. Not with Rex. Not with her. Not with anyone.
She wasn't safe here.
Especially not with him.