Mind already weighing his options, Adam jammed the shoe onto her wet foot to protect against the cold and scooped the woman into his arms. She woke with a start and protested feebly, pushing against his chest. “No,” she cried, her voice a hoarse whisper in the wind. “I don’t want to go back. Please, don’t take me back. I’d rather die here.”
Her reactions making no sense, Adam’s only thought was to reassure. “Shh, you’re okay,” he said, holding her tight and doing his best not to jostle her while moving as fast as he dared through the snow-covered field. “I’ve got you.”
She moaned and went limp in his arms. No further objections came as they crossed the open landscape, wind and wet flakes battering them from every direction. By now, full dark had descended, and Adam had to pay close attention to his footing, or they were both going down.
He aimed them in the direction of the glare of the F-250’s headlights, the running truck promising shelter and warmth against the raging blizzard and sub-zero temperature. It wasn’t until he crossed in front of the bright yellow beams that she came awake again, stiffening in his arms.
“No!” She bucked, fighting against his hold. “No. No. No. Please, kill me now! I can’t go back there. I can’t!” Fear and adrenaline fueled her resistance, giving her a momentary burst of strength, and worried about exacerbating her injuries further, Adam set her carefully on her feet.
He kept her close. Hands on, just in case.
Head down, she trembled. A full-body tremor he felt the vibrations of deep in his core. The woman was terrified. Convinced he meant to do her harm. “I’m not taking you back,” he said, leaning in close and using his body to shield her from the wind as best he could.
She jerked in his arms, but nodded, and Adam realized too late she believed she was about to die. “Hey.” Fingers under her chin, he lifted her head gently, and for the first time he got a good look at her face. She’d been beaten. Her cheek bruised.
Coupled with the knife wound, Adam now had a good idea what the woman ran from. Anger, cold and hard, coursed through his veins, and the sight of her tears escaping from eyes squeezed shut tight pierced him straight through the heart.
“No one’s going to hurt you.” Responsibility settling onto his shoulders with the weight of a command, Adam brushed the pads of his thumbs over her skin, wiping away the moisture. He had to get her warm, find her medical attention, and keep her safe.
Objective number one he could accomplish by getting her in the truck, objectives two and three meant getting her to Doc and keeping her close until he figured this shit out. A risky move, but one he felt compelled to take.
“I can’t go back,” she said on repeat, her hands no longer pushing him away but curling against his chest, the fabric of his shirt clutched in her fists pulling him closer. “I can’t go back.”
He had no intention of letting her go anywhere. The opposite in fact. The woman, a stranger, a victim, a potential threat, didn’t matter, she’d been abused. And finding her, seeing her like this—battered, bleeding, and scared out of her mind—woke things in Adam better left dormant.
Protect. Defend. Avenge. It was how his parents raised him. His reason for living. His way of seeing the world in black or white. Right or wrong. Justification for the things he did, and the people he killed.
He wouldn’t leave her. Couldn’t leave her. Not before the threat to her had been eliminated, and she could go safely on her way.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too damn long.
Adam had places to be and people problems to solve with close proximity precision. Little Ms. Sac and Run? A temporary glitch in his otherwise shitty plan to storm Washington, beat Johnson until he gave up his backers, and then rain lead until he found out the truth about Tak or took up space in the morgue.
“I can’t go back. I can’t go back.”
Jesus. She was delirious. Adam swept his hand under her hair, trailed his fingers down the column of her neck, and checked her pulse. Wicked fast, the flesh under his fingertips flushed despite the cold. Adding infection to the growing list of things she needed treatment for, he tried coaxing her to open her eyes so he could make her understand.
He wouldn’t hurt her. He would never hurt her.
No soft words or gentle persuasion reached her, and to avoid traumatizing her further, he thought it best not to scoop her back up and place her in the truck himself. Left with few options, he put some command in his tone, hoping to break through her fever-induced panic. “Open your eyes, princess.”
The effect was immediate. She stilled in his arms, lifted her chin, and slowly opened her lids. When finally revealed, cobalt-blue irises seared him with a look hot enough to raise the temperature around them. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, but before he could answer, her knees buckled, her arms dropped, and she crumpled against him.
Out cold.
With too many unanswered questions running through his brain, and a growing list of shit he needed to do, Adam lifted her into his arms and settled her against his chest.
Head falling back, her long hair caught the light, strawberry-blond strands dancing in the wind. And he couldn’t help but think, if he’d left twenty minutes sooner, he would have missed her altogether, and she would have been dead by morning.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Las Vegason a Sunday night looked a lot like Las Vegas on any other day of the week. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many bright lights bleeding into dark corners. Vulgar. Dirty. Desperate. Grant hated this fucking city, and sitting at the bar in the Golden Nugget happened to be the last place he wanted to be.
Too many bad memories. Shit he wanted to forget, but couldn’t. His sister Jenny. Her gambling addiction. The debts she’d accumulated, and the deal he made to pay them off. His money sent every month to the man she owed, the only thing keeping her alive.
The only thing keeping his niece alive.
Sarah had to be—what now—fourteen? Maybe fifteen? He had no idea. They hadn’t kept in touch. Not since he moved her and Jenny home to Ottawa a little over two years ago. No cards. No phone calls. Not even an emoji happy face on one of her half dozen social media accounts.
