Nash had been in darkness so long that he’d lost track of the time. After Phillip Crest and his squad of meandering goons hinted at Eliza’s dire situation, they’d left him to stew in his guilt and in his anger. With no windows anywhere around the warehouse, darkness had been his only companion, and he’d lost track of just how long he’d been tied to that fucking chair.

 

All he knew was that he needed to piss, but he wasn’t going to give any of those fuckers the satisfaction of wetting himself. When the pain became too much, he forced his mind elsewhere, somewhere far away and comfortable so that he wouldn’t focus on the agony in his bladder, the fracture in his nose, and the throbbing ache pounding slowly and constantly across his face. Forgetting it all was the best he could do. It was the only thing he could do.

 

Forget and picture Eliza’s face, though imaging her face reminded him that that scumbag had his hands on her in one way or another, and then the cycle of guilt and rage started up all over again.

 

He’d lost the feeling in his hands. They might not have been tied up and over his head, but the tape had cut off his circulation a little while ago, and every time he moved his fingers, that pins-and-needles feeling skittered through each digit. Another thing to try and forget.

 

When the door eventually cracked open and let in a beam of sunlight so blinding that it physically hurt him, Nash did his best to seem unfazed. He doubled over, eyes pressed shut, then straightened up as soon as the door swung shut. Bright spots danced across his vision as he blinked rapidly, squaring his shoulders and readying himself for battle.

 

Moments later, the bright white lights overhead flickered to life, bringing with them an incessant buzzing sound that irritated his ears. He’d grown accustomed to the silence. It hadn’t been a comfort, but it had let him focus on what he needed to—on forgetting. Now, his brain was swirling out of control, gaze jumping from place to place around the warehouse, until it eventually settled on Phillip Crest.

 

The man was wearing something different than he’d been the last time they talked. A polo shirt and khakis with an off-white jacket hung over his arm. If Nash hadn’t known any better, he would have thought that asshole was on his way to play a very stimulating round of golf with other academic types.

 

Maybe he was.

 

“And how are we feeling, Mr. Reeves?” Phillip asked as he approached, once again stopping just out of reach of Nash’s long legs. As if he would try to kick him. What good would that do? They’d left his ankles loose to fuck with him. If he wanted to, he could have gotten up and tried to run. But it would have been a fruitless endeavor—a waste of fucking time. His hands were bound so tightly that he couldn’t even wiggle his arms away from the chair. He would have been running with a fucking chair attached to his body.

 

Like he’d get very far before someone saw him, someone who probably worked for the asshole grinning at him with a perfect set of bright white teeth.

 

“Doing just swell,” Nash insisted, his voice even, conversational. “Got a good night’s sleep for once since, you know, it’s dark as Hell in here. Really. Thank you. I’ve never felt better.”

 

“Really? Because you look like you’ve been hit by a train.”

 

“Probably because one of your guys clocked me in the face, remember?” Nash cocked his head to the side, smirking. “Or did you forget you had them do that? Jump me when all I’d done was follow directions.”

 

“Ah, but you didn’t follow directions, did you?” Phillip said lightly, raising a finger at Nash to stop the impending rant. “I asked for a specific amount of cocaine, and you only delivered half, all the while knowing that I had the power to hurt the woman you love.”

 

“I don’t love her,” he snapped, but the words tasted false, even on his tongue. The way Phillip grinned at him made his hands curl to fists, the pins and needles fighting back full-force. Licking his lips, Nash simply looked away, knowing this was a fight he couldn’t win. “Is she okay?”

 

“I’m not at liberty to say, unfortunately,” Phillip told him, “but I can assure you she will be okay when you make good on your promise and deliver the other half of the drugs you owe me.”

 

“I don’t owe you shit, Crest.”

 

“I’m afraid you do,” Phillip mused, “if you want her to survive the day, you’ll deliver the rest to me in a timely manner with no further delays.”

 

He bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from snapping. The rational side of his brain knew exactly what Phillip was doing. The guy was goading him, pushing and pushing at Nash’s triggers until he finally snapped. It was obvious by now that Eliza and her safety was the only thing that mattered to him. It would have been better if Phillip knew nothing about her, but it was too late for that now. He knew, and he’d use it against Nash without hesitation.

 

Nash just needed to be stronger. He had to be tough. He had to survive this and save her.

 

“If I go back in today and get the rest of the coke, the guys will know something is up,” Nash reasoned with a slight shake of his head. “People saw me get it last night. They know I’m not the guy who does the runs. It’ll look suspicious. Maybe I’ll be tailed—”

 

“Oh, Mr. Reeves,” Phillip said, chuckling. He then let out an unnecessarily dramatic sigh. “You really are a disappointment. Given your reputation, I thought you’d be better than this.”

 

“Well, given your reputation, I thought you were a stand-up guy, but apparently we’re both in for some disappointment today.”

 

They stared at one another like they were in some cheesy Western showdown, a tumbleweed blowing between them and eyes twitching on the close-up. Nash knew he’d have to get the drugs, especially if Eliza’s situation was as precarious as Phillip made it out to be, but he sure as hell didn’t want that rat bastard to think he was going to be his errand boy willingly. He had to put up a little fight. He owed himself that much.

 

“Now you listen to me, Nash Reeves,” Phillip started, his words uttered in a low, dangerous tone, one that actually made the hairs on Nash’s arms stand up. “You are going to get me the rest of the drugs that I asked for, and you’re going to do it without a single fucking complaint. Then, when you’re done with that, maybe you’ll get me some more. Maybe you won’t. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with you yet, but just know that I get to decide. As long as Eliza’s mine, you’re my fucking servant until I say otherwise. Is that clear?”

 

Nash wasn’t exactly proud of what he did next. Holding Phillip’s gaze, Nash reared back and spat at him. The spittle didn’t quite make it onto that asshole’s polo, but it said more than words could.

 

“That was a mistake,” Phillip growled, his eyes narrowing, bushy eyebrows deepening. “A big one.”

 

“I’ll do it,” Nash called just as the round little man turned to stalk away. “But fuck you, Phillip Crest. You deserve to rot for all the lives you’ve taken.”

 

Phillip continued onward, sparing a glance over his shoulder to shout, “Oh spare me your dramatics, Mr. Reeves.”

 

And then he was gone, soon to be replaced by a trio of hulking men, none of whom were quite as muscular as Nash, but it was three against one in a fight Nash wasn’t interested in entertaining.

 

“You try anything stupid,” one of them growled, as another crouched behind Nash to remove the tape, “and I break your skull this time.”

 

“I’m not an idiot,” Nash muttered. His eyes danced from man to man, wondering if he recognized them from anywhere. After all, he’d been in the underground drug world for quite some time, especially in Blackwoods. Most of the drug dealers, and the muscle they brought along, were familiar by now. But none of their faces raised any flags in his mind. None. Must be out-of-towners, because locals weren’t stupid enough to mess with the Steel Phoenixes.

 

“Up,” one barked, hauling Nash to his feet. Every muscle screamed and protested at the movement, and he gritted his teeth as he staggered forward.

 

“Before we go anywhere,” he said as he held his ground, “I gotta take a wicked piss.”

 

“Keep moving—”

 

“Look, man,” Nash snapped, facing the guy who seemed to be the ringleader, the one doing all the talking, “you either let me piss in the bushes or I do it in your car. Pick one.”

 

The three seemed to confer with one another silently for a moment, a whole conversation had with looks alone, and suddenly they were moving again, one of them muttering, “You’re a fucking animal.”

 

“Takes one to know one, brother,” Nash said with a sigh, rolling his eyes and bracing himself for what was coming next.