My eyes narrowed as I searched for the source.
It wasn’t something. It was him. He was different.
At first, I thought maybe it was the dampness glistening on his disheveled sandy hair. Did he shower and use a scent that would throw me off? I’d been around him so much for the past two years that the faint woodsy tone had become part of me. That scent was in here. On the pillow where I sat and in the air. Places I assumed he’d been or touched.
It could be the way he moved. There was a little extra confidence in his step, but not enough for it to be perceived as different. So what was it?
My eyes rolled up to his chest, and that was when it hit me. Preston was missing something—the denim jacket he always wore. I’d never seen him without it. I didn’t know if anyone had. It was odd. That also meant he had fewer pockets and fewer places to stash a weapon for me to grab.
Damnit.
Preston cocked a brow, “I know what you’re doing.”
He had no idea what I was doing, but I was more than happy to let him think he did.
“I’m doing the same thing anyone in my predicament would.”
“If that were true, you’d be pleading with me to let you go.” He stopped a few feet away from my prison and crossed his arms. “And I don’t hear any begging.”
I snorted.
That would never happen. If I’d been trapped in the desert for a thousand days, and he had the only bottle of water, I’d drink my own blood before ever accepting a drop from him.
“Arrogance won’t win you any favors, Little Bird.”
“I think you’re confusing arrogance with determination.” I pointed out, and I was very determined.
Preston hummed and continued his stroll in my direction. “Do you know what people with those personality traits have in common?”
I didn’t really care, but he decided to enlighten me anyway.
“When they break, they don’t just crack. They crumble.”
He thought he was going to break me. That was laughable. I had to hold back a chuckle. “Good luck with that.”
“I’d be careful if I were you.” The arch in his brow deepened. “You already have two strikes.”
Did I care what the strikes were for? No. This was Preston Whitley. For all I knew, I stepped on the wrong blade of grass. There was no winning with him. Just beating him at his own game.
However, I was curious about one thing.
“What happens when I get to three?”
“Who said anything about three? Maybe my magic number is two, or maybe it’s five.” He wrapped his fingers around one of the bars and tipped his head to peer in at me. “Or maybe I keep track of all your infractions for when I’m feeling extra sadistic.”
My throat bobbed with a heavy swallow. Not sure I wanted to find out what his idea of sadistic was. Death and misery were the only things someone like him understood. Fortunately for me, I also understood the icy touch of the reaper.
Tightening my grip on the stolen piece of rope, I shuffled backward. The press of fabric against my palm was the only thing that comforted me when Preston slowly began to circle my cage.
“What are you going to do?” I had a good idea of what his intentions were, but I needed to keep him distracted.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Marnie.” He paused his stalking long enough to roll his stare my way. “You know what’s coming.”
I felt my heart drop as the need to hide my body and hug my knees rolled through me. That would put me at a disadvantage, though, and I already had so many—strength for one. I never questioned my carefully laid out plans more than I did when Preston raised his arm and began clinking his fingers along the bars.
The firmness of his forearm tensing made me miss the denim usually wrapped around his form. Guys like Micha and Mason openly displayed their capabilities, but Preston was deceptive. The power contained in those chiseled grooves and bulges wasn’t obvious. Was that why he wore that jean jacket? So people would underestimate him?
Was I underestimating him?
