Four hours earlier…
DAMON
She hadn't stirred in hours. Her head lolled to the side, red curls spilling over her shoulder like flame trapped in slow motion. The ropes around her wrists had left faint marks on her skin, soft red indentations against pale flesh. She looked almost peaceful like that. Almost serene. If it weren't for the bruises from where she collapsed, the subtle twitch of her fingers, you'd think she was just sleeping.
I crouched in front of her, resting my forearms on my knees, and watched her.
People assumed monsters didn't admire beauty. They thought violence came from rage or chaos. But they didn't understand. Some of us kill because we feel too much. Because beauty is unbearable. And right now, sitting in front of her, I felt that unbearable thing crawl up my spine and settle there like a curse.
She was beautiful.
That word didn't even do her justice. She was something else. Something uncut and sharp. Her hair was red, not copper, not strawberry blond, but deep, blood-wine red, and it framed her face with an unintentional elegance. Her freckles were scattered like some god had spilled stars across her cheekbones. It was those freckles that held me. Not her lips. Not her breasts. Not the soft dip at the base of her throat.
The freckles were what made her look real. Like she bled.
She shifted. Just a breath of movement. A moan escaped her, unconscious and low, and as she moved, the neckline of her shirt sagged. One perfect, pale breast spilled out into the cold air. My breath stopped.
It wasn't lust. Not entirely. It was something darker. Hunger twisted up from somewhere in my gut and hit my chest like a punch. I felt my wolf press against the inside of my ribs, growling and pacing, aching for something. My fingers twitched and I stood up sharply, turning my back to her and digging my nails into my palms.
No. Not yet.
I crossed the room, grabbed the bottle of water I had left on the metal table, and splashed some of it across my face. Cold. Sharp. Grounding. I didn't need her like that. I needed her awake. I needed answers. And after that, I needed her gone.
She coughed behind me.
Then her voice came, low and hoarse and venomous.
"You've got a hell of a way of introducing yourself."
I turned slowly.
She was awake now. Fully. Her eyes were clear, stormy, and furious, and even though her wrists were bound and her hair was tangled and she was bleeding a little from her lip, she stared at me like I was the one tied to the chair.
"Comfortable?" I asked. My voice didn't betray anything. I gave her nothing. She didn't deserve it. Not yet.
"Do I look comfortable, psycho?" she snapped.
Psycho.
Interesting.
No scream. No sobbing. No pleading. She wasn't scared. Or maybe she was, but she didn't show it. I tilted my head, studying her. The way her jaw clenched. The way her eyes didn't blink.
"You know who I am," I said.
"You're a big deal here, right? Crescent Isle's golden freak show. Rich. Dangerous. A ghost in the tabloids. People talk about you like you're some kind of myth."
She spat blood to the side, deliberately missing my shoes by an inch.
"I thought you were just some loser taxi driver," she said, "but clearly you've got some unresolved identity issues."
I smiled.
There it was. Fire.
I moved slowly toward her, crouching again, resting my hands on the arms of the chair. Her body tensed, but she didn't pull away.
"Where's Colt?" I asked.
The name dropped like a stone into the silence.
She blinked. Confused.
"Colt?"
"Yes. Colt. Your sweet little friend. Your boyfriend. The one who's been lying to you for half a year."
She looked at me like I was mad. Like I was making it up. But I saw it. The flicker. The crack in her mask.
"He's in college," she said.
"No. He's not."
I stood and walked to the laptop on the metal table. A few clicks and the screen came to life. I turned it so she could see. Images flashed across it. Time-stamped footage. Photos. Plane tickets. Bar entries. Hotel receipts.
Island after island.
Not a single college among them.
I watched her face closely as she took it in. The way her shoulders stiffened. The way her eyes scanned the screen like she could prove me wrong if she looked hard enough. Her mouth opened. Closed.
Then finally, softly.
"No."
"Yes," I replied.
She stared in silence. She blinked hard a few times. Her lips trembled, not from fear, but from the crushing weight of betrayal. It was pathetic, really. That after everything, the thing that broke her wasn't being kidnapped, but realizing she'd been cheated on.
"How long have you known?" she asked, eyes still on the screen.
"Long enough to know he's not coming for you."
She looked up at me, something fragile and furious boiling behind her stare.
"You want him dead?"
I didn't answer.
"You want to use me to get to him."
Again, I said nothing.
"Then do it," she said, voice low. "But don't treat me like an idiot."
The gall of her. The sheer nerve. I had to laugh. She was more interesting than I thought. But interesting didn't mean useful. If she had no idea where Colt was, then she was nothing more than bait.
Fine.
Plan B, then.
She glared at me with all the fury of someone who thought they were still in control.
I couldn't think straight. The way she looked at me, like she hated me, like she could kill me if she had the chance, it lit something inside me I didn't like. Something I needed to extinguish.
I turned away from her and walked toward the steel door at the back of the warehouse.
"I'll be back."
"You're disgusting," she muttered behind me.
Maybe.
But I didn't care.
I stepped into the washroom and slammed the door behind me. The mirror was cracked. My reflection splintered. I didn't recognize the version of me in the glass. Jaw clenched. Eyes too bright. Pupils too wide.
My body was still hard.
The thought of her, the flash of skin, the smell of her hair, the way she dared to look at me like I wasn't dangerous, it ignited something primal.
I ripped off my shirt, turned on the cold water, and stepped into the shower.
It was freezing. I welcomed it. I let the water numb me. Let it bury the fire under layers of ice. My teeth chattered. My knuckles turned white. Still, I stayed. As the boner she gave him washed away with the water.
I saw something.
Movement.
I shut off the water.
I saw it again, faster and more frantic through the bathroom's window.
I grabbed the towel, wrapped it hastily around my waist, and pushed open the door.
The warehouse was empty.
The chair was toppled over.
The rope lay loose on the floor.
The goddamn fence. She was trying to jump over the fence. I didn't know if it was foolish or brave. Maybe both.
A snarl ripped from my throat, animal and involuntary.
She wanted to jump the fence. She had taken the bait and turned it into a weapon. The fire she'd lit inside me flared again, but now it was fury.
Not fear.
Not loss.
Fury.
She thought she could run. She thought she could escape. She would soon learn no one escaped from Damon Ryder.