He offers me one of his gorgeous smirks, looking at me briefly before turning his attention back to the dusky road.

“I’m going to live somewhere the sun’s always shining,” he announces in a voice that’s almost child-like. This is new. And so flipping adorable. “Just like Cali, but less f*cking expensive.”

“You deserve it,” I reassure, squeezing his hand that’s resting on the console.

“Hey, Prescott?” he says, after a minute. “Tell me something beautiful.” He squeezes my hand back. “I like your words. You got some solid brain between those slightly big ears.”

I chuckle. My ears are a little bigger than the rest of my head. That’s why my hair is so long.

“’You wanna fly? You got to give up the shit that weighs you down.’ Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon.”

“Good stuff, Pea.”

“I try.”

“No, you don’t. That’s what I f*cking like about you.”

I like him too. Not just because he gave me freedom. But because he treats my body more roughly than any of the men who raped me did, yet makes me feel incredibly cherished.

We get to my apartment when it’s still pitch black. It’s weird to be here, in a neighborhood I never thought I’d see again. It looks so normal and oblivious to everything I’ve been through over the past couple of weeks. Nate grabs my hand and rests my knuckles against his lips, willing me to look back at him. I do, and his honey-yellow-greenish-freakish eyes tell me that we’re on the same page.

About everything.

“This is going to be one hell of a ride.”

“That’s okay, we’ll get a faster car.” I smile, then proceed to explain myself. “I can’t let them get away with what they did to me. For me, it’s personal. I’ll go down with them if I have to. If it ever comes to it, if I need to go with them, kill me if it means they’re dead too. Promise me, Nate.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t answer.

“Move your hot ass, Baby-Cakes. We’ve got some baddies chasing after us.”

Don’t judge a book by its cover. Remember The Catcher in The Rye cover? Ugly as the darkest sin committed on earth, but once you jump inside, something beautiful and raw awaits.

Prescott.

On the outside, she’s a generic, attractive shell. Busty and blonde, not unlike that chick from Legally Blonde. Flippant and wrapped up in an expensive dress. Then you dig deep, and you discover a scarred, scared, bold, frightened warrior. A survivor who will not let her enemies get away with what they did to her. A caring sister, a loving woman who’s been betrayed. Angry but still cute, like a f*cking Pink song. She’s so much. She’s too much. But I understand why she wants them dead.

Godfrey.

Sebastian.

Camden.

I’d happily assist with the first two, because I have beef with them that runs just as deep. Camden, on the other hand, is not my problem. I’ll help however I can, but that one’s on her.

I follow Prescott up the stairs to her apartment, watching her calves swelling as she climbs. We didn’t take the elevator to make sure the stairway is clear. She reaches a black wooden door, one of a few in the clean, casually lit hallway, and takes out my dagger from the waist of her underwear. She f*cking kept the dagger she stabbed me with. And she’s about to use it to break into her own apartment. I watch in awe and ignore my twitching dick. This girl has managed to get me hard the way no one else could for a reason.

Prescott is a storm, and she’s sweeping up my ass faster than a tornado, ripping apart shit in her wake without even giving me the opportunity to take a step back and examine the mess she leaves behind.

I’m not going to give a name to what I feel toward her, but there’s one narrative that’s always hanging above my head like a guillotine when she’s around.

Crashing.

Not falling. Falling takes time. I’m thrown into whatever this is, crashing fast, hitting every goddamn branch of the Feelings Tree on my way down before hitting rock bottom with a chilling sound. Landing so hard, I leave a f*cking dent in the shape of my heart.

She pops the door by crushing the dagger against the handle at a perfect angle, pushing it open and signaling me with a head tilt to follow her.

Shorty got moves.

Pea ambles into her bedroom and opens her drawers as I take in her apartment. It’s a simple one bedroom, beige carpets, black couch, flat screen TV, zero pictures, zero furniture, zero personality. She didn’t get comfortable here—she got by. Pea zips open a backpack on her naked mattress and throws a thick batch of credit cards tied together with a rubber band into it. Then she proceeds to throw in some underwear, a bra, approximately five hundred stress balls, cash she’d apparently been hiding under her bed and a fossil tin covered with pictures of Paris and London.

“What’s in the box?” I enquire behind her back, feeling like a tool. I’m just standing here doing nothing, helpful as a f*cking doormat.

“Heroine, crack, rat poison,” she answers flatly, still packing. “We might need to get creative when we strike them. It’s nice to have a few tricks up our sleeves. I’m going into the shower.” Her drawer snaps shut with a bang. I want to come with her. Hell, I want to come in her. But rationally, I know that in order for her to trust me, I need to keep my dick in my pants until she’s ready for more. She’s been sexually abused, and I’m not going to pretend like it never happened. We’re chasing down the motherf*ckers who did this to her and won’t rest until our fingers are smeared with their blood. Besides, this journey is not about *. It’s about wonderful, twisted, dark paths, all of them leading to one destination: Freedom.