He just holds me.
I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to feel. I’m comfortable because I feelsafe. For the first time in a very, very long time, I feel safe. Which is weird because I know Alvin is looking for us, and he tends to find people when he’s looking for them. And now we’ve pissed him off, ruining his beloved truck. He wants Chance dead—after torture, no doubt. And me? After this, he’s probably done fucking around. He gets ahold of me, I don’t see good things in my future. No more mule errands, no more playing escort. I’ll be, for all intents and purposes, a sex slave; deny, I die. Perform as expected, I live.
Yet, despite the reality and gravity of the situation, I somehow feel safe, simply because I’m in his arms.
Also, he’s warm. He radiates heat. His skin is smooth and soft under my cheek. I can hear his heartbeat.
Fuck.
I really, really like this. I don’t want to like it. I want to dislike it. I want to dislike him.
I don’t.
In the end, I find myself slowly fading into sleep. I can’t help it—I’m warm, I’m safe.
* * *
I’m woken abruptlyand violently—iron-band arms clenching tight around me so hard I yelp in surprised pain, and then an instant of weightlessness and I hit the floor. The impact is cushioned by Chance’s arms, and his weight is on me, above me, sheltering me.
And then the world explodes into gunfire. Automatic weapons-fire cracks and barks, and I hear glass shattering, wood splintering, drywall pitting. It goes on forever, it feels like. Softer thuds of bullets hitting the bed where we were moments before.
I hear Chance grunt in my ear.
I’m not breathing, not at all. My lungs burn but I can’t manage to suck in a breath—fear has them frozen.
A moment of silence.
I’m airborne, in Chance’s arms, moving. Deposited swiftly but gently in the tub; I scramble to my feet, or try to. “Lay the fuck down,” he snaps, and I lie down. “Donotleave that spot until I say the word ‘clear.’ If I say ‘you can come out now,’ you stay the fuck down. If I sayanythingat fucking all other than that one word—clear—you stay the fuck down. Got me?”
I nod once.
“Good.”
He’s gone.
I hear a loud cracking, splintering noise, of a door being kicked open. There’s a gunshot. Athwack, a grunt, a cry of pain…thud. Another gunshot. Several more grunts with accompanying sounds of fists or feet on flesh. A loud crack, a louder cry of agony.
“Stay the fuck down, bitch,” I hear Chance growl. Pause. “Dumbfuck.” Another crack, a weaker cry of pain.
More silence.
“Annika—clear.” His voice is strong, calm. “You can come out here now, but if you’ve got a squeamish stomach, you may not want to.”
I clamber to my feet awkwardly, hobble out of the tub, and limp out of the bathroom. I halt abruptly just beyond the doorway, lean against the frame, hand covering my mouth.
Chance stands at the center of a pile of moaning, writhing bodies, his massive bare torso heaving deep breaths, hands clenched in loose fists at his sides, hair loose and wild. He looks like a primal warrior god, especially with the spray of blood dotting his chest and face.
One of the bodies has an arm bentwaythe wrong way. Another of the downed attackers looks like he’s had his knee kicked in backward. Guns litter the floor. The whole front wall, facing the parking lot, is dotted with holes streaming bright holes of daylight.
Chance’s eyes find me. “You good?”
“I’m unhurt, yes.” I limp toward him. “You?”
He glances down at himself, shrugs, looks back at me. “Fine. These clumsy dimwits couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun.”
“That’s not your blood, I take it.” I twist, snag a towel from the rack just inside the bathroom, toss it to him.
He catches it, wiping at his chest and belly. “Nah.” He scans his arms, shoulders, belly again, then chucks a pink-stained towel onto the floor, grabs my cane from the bed and brings it to me. “Come on, mama. Time to make ourselves scarce.”
