I crouch beside him and slice through the rope around his legs, my movements careful but quick. But when I get to his wrists, I freeze, blade hovering.
This could all be a trick.
“You promise you’re not going to kill me the second you’re free?”
He turns his head just enough to meet my eye, the corner of his mouth unmoving.
“If I wanted you dead,” he says, calm as ice, “you’d already be there.”
A chill curls up my spine, latches onto my ribs and tugs. But I nod, swallowing hard. I have to trust him. I don’t get the luxury of fear—not until Darcy’s safe.
The second I ease the rope free, he stretches—arms wide, spine cracking, every muscle along his torso flexing like coiled steel unspooling. I catch myself staring and quickly turn away, suddenly fascinated by the urgent need to gather my things.
Behind me, I hear a sharp inhale—nostrils flaring, limbs unfolding—and when I risk a glance, he’s rising to his full height.
Andmy god, he’s tall.
I hadn’t realised it before, not properly. Hard to judge when he was hunched and tied like a trussed-up roast. But standing?
He’s at least six-four. Maybe taller.
I’ve officially kidnapped a giant.
Now that he’s free, there’s something different—something heavier in the way he moves. Every stride feels like a warning, coiled power barely restrained.
But he made a promise.
And for my own sake, I have to believe he’ll keep it.
“You promised,” I breathe, voice catching as I tighten my grip on the knife—my last shred of control, trembling and useless in my hand.
I flinch without meaning to. My body remembers yesterday. Remembers Adam.
But when I glance up, there’s no blow coming. No sneer. No venom.
He’s just… there.
Leaning over me, close enough to steal my breath, all heat and quiet menace. He doesn’t touch me—doesn’t have to. His presence wraps around mine like a dark cloud. But his hand is outstretched, palm open, waiting.
“Bag,” he says in that damn husky voice as he nods to the suitcase I’m clutching like a lifeline. “You carry the cat. I draw the line there.”
He doesn’t say a word while we pack the last of it up—just watches, silent, while I shut the door on the wreckage of my old life. I’ll deal with the fallout later. Right now, every ounce of focus is fixed on one thing: bringing Darcy home.
His car’s parked a few streets over, and I fall into step beside him, filling the silence with rambling optimism. I tell him how flawlessly this is going to go, how gifted I am at stalking people—hebeing Exhibit A.
I even reenact the swing that knocked him out cold, miming the arc with theatrical flair. The rolling pin, of course, is conveniently tucked near the top of my bag—still very much part of the plan, should the need arise.
“Phone.”
He cuts me off mid-ramble, halting in his tracks with a hand held out like a royal decree.
“Excuse me?” I blink, thrown off my momentum.
“My phone. I want it back.”
Oh.That.
I dig through my backpack, cheeks warming as I fish out the car keys and the phone—both returned with exaggerated innocence. He snatches them without a word and keeps walking, thumb already coaxing his phone back to life like it’s been through some terrible trauma.
