The cab driver seemed pissed off that he had to come so far up the mountains for a fare. Lars gave the poor man a grin as the three of them clambered into the back, but it didn’t seem to help matters much.

“Where to?” the cabbie grumbled.

“Silver City proper.” Lars swung his arms along the back of the car seats.

Just as he’d expected, Finn sat forward in a rush to avoid his touch. Cora, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice. She stared out the window, face cupped in a hand, as if wishing she was anywhere but here.

He just didn’t get it. This girl wasn’t Milo’s type. Milo preferred hellcats full of fire and brimstone. Not naive innocents like Swan who wouldn’t say boo to a goose…if she even knew what one looked like when it wasn’t being served up to her on a golden platter with a swirl of some unpronounceable gourmet reduction.

Maybe he’d gotten cabin fever, closeted up with this cartel chick for close to a week. It would make him think strange thoughts. Do strange things.

Lars gave Cora a light shove. “Why so quiet, bunny?”

She turned to him, and looked past at Milo. “What did they do to you?” she asked.

Shit, was the girl still stuck on that? Admittedly, he’d ended on a cliffhanger. Some folks didn’t like that. But it was up to Milo if he wanted to talk about his time with the Syrians. After all, Lars couldn’t corroborate anything he said.

Didn’t want to, either.

“He can tell you when—” Lars began, but Milo cut him off with a lifted hand.

His fingertips brushed the scar over his throat, just visible above the neckline of his sweater. “You wanted to know where I got this?”

Lars looked at Cora. She watched Milo with dread, a slow horror building on her face. “Did they—”

“Among other things,” Milo said, glib as always. But there’d been times when he hadn’t been casual about recounting the days he’d spent being tortured in the desert. Times when it was all Lars could do to calm him down before he went on a rampage.

Sometimes, he didn’t succeed.

Hunting helped some. There was something about the shedding of blood that seemed to calm the man. As if he was trying to rebalance the scales of blood shed by his own body with those of grouse, deer…sometimes men.

Lars couldn’t always be there to stop him.

“They let you go?” Cora asked quietly.

Milo let out a rough laugh. “Why the fuck would they do that?”

“You escaped?”

Lars felt Milo’s gaze move to him, and he tried keeping his face from twitching. “He escaped,” Lars said, trying for a jolly tone and probably coming closer to hysterical.

He’d gone back for him, of course. He’d been able to track the Syrians all the way to their fucking secret lair in the foothills of a dry, dusty mountain. And there he’d waited, trying to figure out their routine so he could formulate a plan to spring Milo.

Except…the same day he’d planned to go in after the mysterious stranger who’d given up his freedom for Lars…that same day someone staggered from the dark slit that led into the mountainside.

Someone covered in blood.

He’d thought his mind was playing tricks on him. That he hallucinated the vivid red splashed on those white robes.

But then the Syrian man collapsed in the dust and didn’t get up. And a few seconds later, Milo emerged from the cave. Lars had been too shocked to move. Frozen in place like prey spotting a predator. Because that was what it had felt like.

Milo caked in blood and dirt like a foal birthed into mud. Naked, erect, and as crazed as a rabid dog. He’d gone after the Syrian and torn off his blood-soaked robes, covering himself as if the animal inside him could sense Lars hiding nearby.

And then he’d looked straight at him, a pained resignation in his eyes as he slowly sank to his knees.

When Lars had reached him, Milo was shuddering. Blood dripped from the rag wound tight around his neck, the dry earth drinking it down like rain.

He’d knelt beside Milo, hesitated, and then touched his shoulder. “It’s over, man,” he’d said. “It’s over.”

Milo had shaken off his touch like an irritated hound. And then, in a growl that in no way resembled the deep, pleasant bass of before, he’d said, “It’ll never be over. It’ll never be enough.”

Lars blinked away the reverie. “And we all lived happily ever after,” he said, his voice sounding leaden to his own ears. “The end.”