"Just the truth, love." I shake my head, scrubbing my face with one hand. "If you knew. If you could see my rotten, black soul…" I swallow hard, each breath searing my throat with the infernal heat of guilt ravaging my insides. "You'd run as far and fast as you could. And you should, Bryn. If you had an ounce of sense in that…that perfect fucking head of yours, you'd put a hole in my fucking skull and run. And you should, Bryn. Run and don't fucking look back."
My eyes burn. Everything burns.
I can't…
It has to be now or I'll cock it all up.
"My mobile," I say, my voice shredded as if I’d swallowed razored blades. "It was my friend. We can go see him now. He'll…he'll sort you out. But it has to be now."
Hope blossoms in her eyes. "He can help me get home? This won't touch my family?"
"Yeah. Home." I can't look at her or she'll see the lie on my face. "Won't touch your family."
She scrambles to her feet, grabs my hand, and hauls me to my feet. "Well, come on then! Let's go!" She's so eager, the poor doomed creature, pulling on her clothes as fast as she can.
I just watch from the doorway for a moment. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.
She doesn't hear.
Not that it matters. There's no forgiveness for the likes of me.
Not after this.
9
9: THE EVILEST HUMAN BEING I'VE EVER MET
Rush is…off. He's been off since we got to Lyon. I don't know what to make of it. The cocky, smirking, teasing, "love" this and "mate" that brash bad boy is gone. He's withdrawn, silent, and brooding. Dark and angry. Whatever happened in that bathroom was not good.
A venomous little serpent of suspicion wriggles in my belly—what if he's not who he says he is? What if there's something he's not telling me? What if…what if…what if?
I wonder a thousand things, ask a thousand what-ifs, worry about a thousand hypothetical scenarios as we walk the streets of Lyon. I'd thought we would take a taxi, but Rush insisted on walking. I only slept for an hour and a half at most, so I'm still physically exhausted. Plus, I'm now deliciously sore down between my legs—the man is hung like a horse. There is such a thing as too big of a dick, and his is just barely this side of that line. Any thicker and it'd probably hurt in a not good way. As it is, he pounded me into next week, so yeah, I'm walking a little funny.
No regrets, but I'm gonna need a day or so to recover before I ride that train to Poundtown again.
For some reason, I hear Corinna's voice in my head: Brynnie-baby, are you in a dick-haze? Because in your situation, you can't afford to let yourself get lost in the cock, no matter how good the fucking is. You gotta be thinking clearly.
You don't know how good the fucking is, I tell Corinna's voice in my head. It's world-class. Top work, as Rush would put it. And his cunnilingus game? Stellar. A-plus. Ten stars out of five. The sex is so fucking amazing I had to bring my A-game. And not to toot my own horn, but I like to think my A-game is pretty damn good. That BJ I gave him in the bathroom? Might be my best effort to date. So yeah, I might just be a little cock-lost. You would be, too. I mean, for fuck's sake, look at you, Rin. You and Apollo got it on like Donkey Kong all over the world, and the man fucking KIDNAPPED you and held you hostage in his own personal fucking castle like some demented, horny version of Beauty and the Beast. So bitch, you can miss me with the dick-haze warning. My eyes are open. This is just good sex—okay, GREAT sex, the best, the most amazing sex I’ve ever had—with a sinfully, wickedly hot man who just happens to be helping me escape sex traffickers. It's a situation of opportunity. You would, and did, do the same. Of course, you fell in love with your captor, you Stockholm Syndrome-having slag. I'm not falling in love with Rush. I mean sure, I'd kill to have a week alone with him in a hotel with nothing but room service and a lot of good, hard fucking. That's not love, though. That's lust. I'm a lusty gal, and I'll take all the world-class sex I can get.
I end my mental diatribe with an internal sigh as I take in my changing surroundings.
This area of Lyon is upscale. The buildings are all those fancy French ones that you see all over Paris. Fancy hotels. Fancy coffee shops, fancy restaurants.
I point at one of the buildings in question. "Is there a word for that style of building?" I ask Rush.
"Haussmann, I think." His response is absent-minded, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
Well that was a dead-end conversational gambit. He's not holding my hand like he did the whole time we've been together. Not looking at me. Responding in as few words as possible. His hands are fisted in his leather jacket pockets, jaw clenched and hard.
We're stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for traffic to clear. I grab his arm, turn him to face me. "Rush."
He jerks his arm free. "What?"
"What did I do?" I ask.
He frowns. "Do?"
"I clearly pissed you off, somehow. You've barely said two words to me since we left the hotel." I hate how needy I sound, how desperate for his approval.
