Nine.

It’s locked. I swivel back and look around, eyes frantic, urgently searching for the keys.

Eight.

They should be here somewhere. Beat and Ink can’t lock themselves in from the outside.

Seven.

I hear his heavy footfalls. The hallway is short, too short.

Six.

I spot the keys resting inside a fruit bowl, hidden between a few black bananas. I scoop them and jam the key into the lock with shaky hands. I can’t do it. Dammit, I keep missing the hole!

Five.

Trying once.

Four.

Trying twice.

Three.

Come on. Come on. Come on.

Two.

Taking a deep breath, I jam the key again, twisting it left and right.

Click.

I swing the door open and trip through it, at first heavily, like I’m moving through sticky dough. I still can’t believe my good luck. My pace breaks into a full-on sprint when I get used to the sudden fresh air. I’m out. My bare feet are hitting the dewed grass.

I’m out. I’m out!

I’m running into the pitch-black night, toward the lights, toward Taco Bell, toward freedom. Once I get there, I’ll fall to my knees and beg the cashiers for help. They’ll call 911. I’ll be safe.

All I need is to get to the corner of this sleepy, wide-road boulevard. It merges with El Dorado, one of Stockton’s main streets.

Liberty is at my fingertips, and I can almost brush it. Hell, I can already smell it. Nighttime breeze hits my lungs, the bloom of summer violent with its hopefulness. I gulp it in pleasure, gasping for more.

Stumbling upon shattered beer bottles, I race forward, wincing in pain but never stopping, my muscles straining under the rush of adrenaline.

I’m just about to round the corner into plain sight when a huge body football-tackles me into the grass of a front lawn.

My airway is cut by the attacker, who is pressing against my torso. Intentional? At this point, completely irrelevant, as I’m thrown back to square one. Muscular legs are straddling my body and he’s using one hand to pin my arms above my head, the other to cover my mouth.

Nate.

I’m yelling, biting into his palm with everything I have, knowing that he is too good to hit me, too good to inflict pain upon me—though not too good to let me run away from the hands of those who would destroy me—but all I get is his low voice growling brokenly, “Sorry.”

I pop one eye open, shocked. He’s sorry?

“You’re trying to save your life, I get it. But I’m trying to save mine, all right? We can do this cat and mouse thing, where you’re trying to break free and I impose shitty rules to keep you from escaping. Or you can just accept that this is not going to happen. Next time, you’ll be out of this house, Godfrey and Camden will escort you out.”

I feel my chest trembling with tears. Hatred and terror block my throat, making it impossible to swallow. The possibility of not running away from here crashes into me for the very first time. And to think that I was so close. That I’m still close. Outside in the open, straddled by a huge masked man.

But this is a quiet side street in Stockton. On the corner of the street, three homeless people with loaded supermarket carts are yelling and throwing junk at each other.

A bum sleeps under a small shed he created for himself down the road, unmoved by our commotion.

There’s a junkie sitting on the steps of a church not too far away, talking animatedly to her fingers.

Beat and I are nothing special here. Even if we were, no one is going to pick a fight with a guy so big and muscular. Not for me, anyway.

No one is coming to get me.

I open my mouth, intending to protest, maybe even beg—I’m not above begging at this point—when I feel him subtly grinding against me. At first, I think it might be by accident. But no. He’s circling his hips against mine. I lift my ass on an instinct, wanting him to go crazy for me.

I’m going to smash your balls, Mr. Vela.

His cold zipper hits my bare lower stomach—just where the towel slits open. He’s hard. Very hard. And I may be mistaken, but he’s also as thick as Godfrey’s cockney accent.

Beat moves lower, his swollen cock pressed against my sensitive flesh.

The hand that’s clasping my mouth shut is now moving downward, the back of it brushing my erected nipple, going south, grabbing my ass roughly with a squeeze. I sigh, rolling my head against the concrete, wanting to submit to him but knowing I’m about to knee his balls and try to run again. . .

Then his head drops, his forehead meeting mine. I can smell the cheap plastic of his mask and the sweet scent of his masculine sweat. And that peachy mouth, the one I haven’t even seen yet. He lets out a frustrated grunt.

“Let’s go, Pea.”

Nate scoops me up and helps me to my feet before I manage to damage his boys. We walk back to his house—I have no other option I’m completely imprisoned, clasped by this real-life gladiator. But when we walk in, something dawns on me.

He is attracted to me.

He is fighting this for Godfrey. For his life. But if I convince him that I can offer him a way out. . .game on.

There’s a flicker of passion in him. . .and I’m about to set it to flames. Flames that’d burn every single plan Godfrey has for me.

Nate shoves me into the basement and locks me in.

“Last warning. If you don’t want to end up blindfolded and tied again, you’ll behave.”