“Where are we taking her again?” I ask, to break the silence.
“Back to Boston,” Declan says flatly.
“Why?” she asks quietly, her voice a squeak. She looks up, her thumb still in her mouth, being chewed on. Her cheek twists in silent contemplation. She’s nervous. The family she left behind is there. The closer we get to Boston, the closer we get to the memories and the origin of it all. And farther away from her sons and her friend and her normalcy.
Declan considers a moment before answering, “Dawants eyes on you. He’s not impressed with how long this is taking. He doesn’t understand why you’re still alive.”
“Neither do I,” Caroline murmurs.
Declan looks into the rearview mirror at her and says, “Nor I, to be honest.”
“It’s not a job you rush,” I mutter.
Declan shoots me a look but doesn’t argue. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and returns his attention to the road.
Rian, however, looks at me through his peripheral. His face turns just slightly so he can take me in without giving anything away. When he’s gathered whatever he needs to, he leans back and runs his hands through his curls so his elbows flare out, taking up too much space. I can’t tell what point he’s making. Ownership. Possession. Privilege.
Power.
The car goes quiet again, just the hum of tires and breath and tension. I feel like we’re all waiting for something to snap.
Only I know it already has.
17
CAROLINE
We’ve been drivingfor hours. No one’s talking anymore. Rian’s head leans against the window, but I don’t trust that he’s asleep. His breath is too even, too practiced. Declan hums quietly under his breath at the wheel—something tuneless, jagged, almost aggressive in its monotony. Kellan sits beside me, his body close but not touching. He hasn’t looked at me since we got in the car. Not really.
I can still feel him. His fingers. His mouth. The way he said my name like it meant something. And yet here I am again, in the back seat of a car like cargo.
I shift slightly. My hand brushes the inner lining of my jacket, where I slipped a piece of torn metal from the bathroom window frame. It’s sharp. Small. Enough.
They haven’t checked me since we left the hotel. Maybe they trust me. Or maybe they’ve stopped seeing me as a threat.
Kellan shifts beside me and finally speaks. “You cold?”
His voice is rough. Sleepy. Guilty.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, and I see him flinch like I said something cruel.
Declan turns down a different road that’s narrower, bumpier, lined with trees so thick the sky disappears.
“Shortcut?” Rian asks, still not opening his eyes.
“To the private runway,” Declan confirms.
Private. Of course. I think about my sons. About Alaina. I press the cool metal in my pocket tighter against my palm.
Beside me, Kellan clears his throat and taps his fingers twice on his thigh. A signal. To me, maybe. Or himself. I glance at him, and he looks away.
They all think they know me by now. None of them are ready for what I’ll do to survive.
I stare out the window at the blur of trees, counting the seconds between the turns. The road’s narrowing into nothing now. It has sharper curves, fewer signs. There’s a slope to it, a pull downhill like gravity’s trying to get ahead of us.
That’s when the thought strikes me. Not a plan, but a possibility. I’ve been fingering the scrap of metal like it might save me. But the variables are many—how strong I am, how sharp it really is, how good my aim is, how quick they are. I could be killed before I’ve done anything.
But I could grab the wheel. I could end this. My fingers twitch in my lap, already decided. I will not be executed at some undisclosed location like an animal no one claims. I will not disappear quietly. If they’re going to kill me, then I’m going to go out with their blood on my hands. Maybe mine too. But at least it will bemychoice.
