I SAT ON THE cold cement floor of the bathroom, knees to my chest, arms tight around them as I waited for the door to open.
Booted steps strode through my adjoining bedroom toward me.
Closer. Louder.
Goose bumps scattered. My body trembled as raw fear gripped me. It was like I was hanging off the side of a cliff by my fingernails, knowing I’d eventually fall and the pain would come.
Unbearable pain.
He’d come. My husband or whoever he’d sent to get me.
There was no escape. No where to run.
The heavy thuds stopped outside the bathroom door, and I glimpsed the tall, dark shadow that filtered through the two-inch gape.
I put my chin on my knee and closed my eyes, afraid to look. If I didn’t look, then no one was here. My breath came in short, sharp, quiet gasps and I dug my fingers into the sides of my thighs so hard, blood trickled down my skin through my pants.
For almost a month, I’d expected this day to come, stomach churning every time I heard someone in the corridor outside my bedroom. Living in a black hole, I was desperate to get out, but knew the day I did, it was to face punishment for helping the Scars escape the compound.
The door pushed open with what sounded like a kick of a boot.
Tears pooled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I squeezed my eyes shut harder as fear drilled into me like tiny darts piercing my skin.
Another step.
Then another.
Then nothing.
Please don’t let it be Ben. Anyone but Ben.
“Fuck, babe. What the hell?”
My breath hitched at the sound of the familiar, deep voice. A voice I’d never forget. A voice that gave me hope then snatched it away with his lies.
I raised my head and locked eyes on the Scar I’d helped escape.
Well, more like he used me in order to help him and his friend escape.
He was also the man who had haunted my dreams for weeks since then. And they were haunting because he was scary. Not ugly scary, far from it, but intense scary.
He had a chiseled jaw with a few days of scruff and defined cheekbones. His look was old-world, which made sense since the Scars were immortal, but he definitely wasn’t an old-world English gentleman. More like a Highland Scot.
A long, jagged scar dragged from his right brow to his ear and another across his neck, which attributed to the scary factor. But that wasn’t what did it—that gave him character, it gave him a story.
It was his eyes that really intimidated, black and cold without a hint of compassion. And after spending a night in an air duct with him, I knew, compassion was not part of his disposition.
Actually, he’d been an asshole and didn’t try to hide it.
“Get up.”
I didn’t move.
I didn’t know what to do. He’d used me before, so I guessed he was here to use me again, although the reason was unclear because my husband didn’t have any Scars in his compound for this guy to break out.
“Babe, don’t have time for this shit. Get the fuck up.” He didn’t wait for me to get up, but bent, grabbed my forearm, and hauled me to my feet with a rough yank. I landed against him, my palms on his chest.
I quickly shoved back, but his hand remained locked on my forearm, and he didn’t allow me further than arm’s length. Staring, he performed a quick assessment, his dark eyes narrowing and trailing down the front of me.
“You look like shit. Worse, actually.” With the calloused pad of his thumb, he haphazardly wiped the tears from my cheeks.
I had no response. I was confused as to why he was here and how he managed to get into the basement and find me without the alarms blaring.
He cupped my chin. “You hurt?”
Not really, but I was an emotional wreck. Did that count?
“You need to answer me when I ask you a question.”
He was right, I did, and not because he told me to, but because there was a sliver of hope. I always had it. Most of the time, it was buried deep, but when my eyes hit the Scar… it surfaced whether I wanted it to or not.
So, that hope was him, and pissing him off was going to kill it.
“No,” I said. He frowned. “I’m not hurt.” Then I had a moment of bravery that came with the hope. “Ummm, why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Not really. But the answer wasn’t important, because he’d lied to me before, so no matter what he said, it was highly probable it was complete bullshit. And so was my hope.
His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed; yet his hand on my chin was soft and gentle. “Do I need to fuckin’ carry you?”
What was he talking about? “Carry me? Carry me where?”
His lips pursed together as he glared at me with black, unforgiving eyes. “Listen, babe, I don’t feel like becoming some guy’s lab rat, so I need you to pull your shit together, answer my questions, stop asking them, and maybe we’ll get out of here alive.”
Get out of here? The hope plowed back into me, but I was afraid to grab onto it because I didn’t dare believe the Scar had come back to get me out of here. Why would he?
But there was something different in him than three weeks ago. Maybe it was the way he gently wiped my tears away or how he held me right now, his fingers no longer bruising, but holding me steady as if he knew I needed the support.
He was tall, probably six foot two, and I’d noticed when I was against his chest that my head tucked under his chin. I also noticed, beneath his black T-shirt, he was rock-hard with ridges and valleys of muscles.
His hand moved to the back of my neck. It wasn’t exactly gentle, but more like he was attempting to get my attention. He already had it, but I was still confused.
“You want to get out of this pisshole? ‘Cause if you don’t, tell me now so I can leave you here and get the fuck out.”
I tried to lower my head, but his grip on the back of my neck tightened and I was forced to meet his eyes. “I hate him.” Why did I say that? I mean, I did, but he didn’t ask me that.
His brows drew together and his grip on my neck tightened. “Yeah, I got that, babe.”
Logically, I should be terrified of him, yet I wasn’t. It was more nervousness than anything.
There was a hint of something I recognized in his eyes that was oddly comforting. And I recognized it because it was the same look I saw in myself; the haunting tornado of emotions trapped behind a wall.
Our walls were very different, though. His wall was a shield of anger. Mine was a shield of numbness.
He let me go, eyes scanning the bathroom before grabbing my sweatshirt hanging on a hook on the wall. “Arms up.” I did and he pulled it over my head. “It’s cold and you don’t have an ounce of fat on you,” he said while his gaze traveled the length of my body. “Jesus, you look like you’ll break in a gust of wind.” He swore beneath his breath and shook his head. “You good to run?”
My legs felt like uncooked spaghetti ready to crack in half at the slightest push and my heart beat erratically, having to work hard to keep my body functioning. I was falling apart, so probably the truth would be a hell no, but I nodded anyway.
He hesitated then nodded, as if satisfied that, regardless of my lie, he thought I’d be able to at least keep up.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me from the bathroom, through the bedroom, to the door.
He pulled a knife from a leather sheath at his hip and opened the door, peering out before looking back at me. “Keep close. Lag behind and I’m not coming back for you. Understand?”
I nodded.
I didn’t trust him, but I did know he would leave me because he’d done it before.
The fight inside me had died years ago, as had the ability to trust anyone. I had trusted. I had fought. Neither had done me any good. So now I trusted myself, and that meant killing parts of who I was.
It meant protecting me.
Burying me.
“Babe?”
I snapped my eyes to his. For a second, I thought his eyes softened, but it was more wishful thinking on my part. He was probably thinking he’d just made the stupidest mistake of his life by coming back here. Escaping my husband’s compound twice had a high probability of failure.
His fingers curled around my fragile hand, squeezed, then tugged me forward. “Let’s get the fuck out of this shithole.”
We ran down the sterile hallways, hesitating at intersecting corridors so he could watch the security cameras up in the corners until they rotated in the opposite direction.
I had no idea how he expected to get out of here without being caught. Taking the elevator was out of the question as it was a deathtrap on cables, and the south stairs led into the main living quarters.
But he’d done his homework because breaking into the sub-basement was no easy task, and I was still uncertain how he got past the code boxes on the doors.
He stopped and I collided with his hard, broad back. He let go of my hand and turned, his knife held toward me.
My eyes went from him to the knife then back again. “Ah, yeah?”
He grabbed my wrist and slapped the hilt into my palm, curling my fingers around it. “Use it. And don’t fuckin’ hesitate. Go for the jugular.” He pointed to the faint scar across his throat.
My eyes flickered to the thin, raised line. I couldn’t imagine anyone getting close enough to this guy to be able to cut his throat. And whoever had, I imagined was no longer alive.
“I, ah…” God, the thought of cutting someone made my stomach lurch. Could I end a life? I’d done it once before and swore never to do it again, but it also hadn’t been with a knife. I glanced down at the blade stained with blood.
But if it meant escape? Freedom from my sick husband? Could I do it? I dragged my eyes back to his and nodded.
“Hey.” He cupped my chin, his chest inches from mine. “Don’t think about it. It’s you or them.”
I nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay.” I could do this. I had to.
“This isn’t going to be pretty.”
“I know.” And I did. Nothing was pretty about this place.
He gave an abrupt nod then pulled a gun from the back of his jeans. He opened the door to the stairwell and waited a few seconds, head tilted, listening.
He nodded to the camera up in the corner, which slowly turned in our direction. “Hits us in five seconds. No way to avoid it. When it does, all hell is going to break loose. We haul ass. Don’t stop no matter what you hear or see. When we get outside, run like hell to the north wall—on the far right of the gate—someone will be there to help you.”
Climbing over the stone wall surrounding this place was impossible. I knew from experience. Even with a rope to haul me up the twelve feet, it would take too long, considering Anton’s special guards would be hunting us like dogs.
He glanced up at the camera again before shoving me ahead of him. “Go!”
I ran as fast as I could up the stairs. My legs shook, knees wobbled, and my lungs cried for more oxygen as the panic ate it up.
I tripped on a stair and began to fall forward when his hand grabbed my elbow. His momentum kept us going as he half-dragged me up the stairs.
One flight.
Two flights.
Ground floor.
A piercing alarm sounded.
We stopped at the locked door leading into the hallway, which led outside. There was running and shouts below us in the stairwell. I knew the protocol; the place would go into lockdown and we’d never escape.
“I don’t have the code to unlock the door,” I said. Anton had changed them after the Scars escaped, and this time, he hadn’t given them to me. All the doors leading onto the ground floor were locked.
“Figured that. This doesn’t always work with security systems, but it did on your cell.”
He called my bedroom a cell.
Cold, sterile, and with nothing personal. Since I was ten years old, my bedroom had been four white walls, a bed, and a bathroom.
Once, one of Anton’s men, Roarke, had given me a novel called Pride and Prejudice. I’d read it a hundred and fifty-two times and would have again if my husband hadn’t found it beneath my mattress.
The Scar let go of my elbow and stood in front of the code box while I pressed my back against the wall, catching my breath.
I held the knife with both hands in front of me.
A door slammed on the floor below.
We had to find another way. There wasn’t enough time. “We need to—”
“Babe, shut the fuck up for five seconds.” He stood, calm and composed, staring at the code box as if he was thinking about what to do.
I stayed quiet despite the subtle wave of defiance that rose at his harsh words. A defiance that had been crushed until I had nothing left to fight except a shell of existence that had been cracked and chipped at for years.
Who I’d been had been eaten up by my own body, not because it was my choice, but because it had been my survival. Now, I was so far within myself, I couldn’t find my way back.
The code box turned a bright orange and smoke billowed around it before it sparked and hissed. My eyes widened as his eyes changed, melting away the black until they were solid gold with a red dot in the center.
What the hell?
Oh, my God. Could Scars do that? How could he do that?
A click sounded and the door unlocked. Holy shit.
He held out his hand, and I put mine in his. He pulled me through the door, down the hallway, and then pushed me ahead of him.
“Go,” he ordered. “Run.”
I hesitated as he aimed his gun at the deserted hallway behind us. Suddenly, two men barreled around the corner, and he fired off two shots. Both went down in quick succession.
“Go!”
I whirled around and ran as fast as my quivering legs would go.
The gun went off again and I staggered, putting my hand on the wall while looking over my shoulder for him. He was bent over one of the men he shot, checking for something.
I turned and ran again.
“Babe. Fuck. Stop,” he shouted.
The door to my right flung open and a hard body slammed into me, knocking me off my feet. But I didn’t fall to the floor because an arm hooked my waist and I was jerked up against a broad chest.
There was heavy breathing next to my ear before my captor grated out, “Sweet Rayne. Where do you think you’re going?”
Oh, God, Ben. My husband’s right-hand man.
The man who took pleasure in watching me suffer. Who got off on it. I hated him. Maybe more than my husband, because in some demented way, my husband did all this for the purpose of science. It was wrong. It was cruel and I was a product of that, but Ben…he enjoyed hurting others.
And I’d enjoy hurting him.
My grip tightened on the handle of the knife as I jabbed it as hard as I could backward into his thigh. The second it hit flesh, it was like plunging into a sponge. It jerked to a stop when it hit bone and jarred my hand.
“Fuckin’ bitch,” he screamed, then looped his arm around my neck while his other hand knocked the knife from my grip, yanked the blade from his thigh and tossed it to the floor.
“Let her go, dickhead.” The Scar stood several feet away, gun pointed at us.
The cool hard metal of Ben’s gun came to my temple. He cocked it. “How about you drop it before I put a bullet through her skull.”
The Scar laughed, but it wasn’t a good laugh. It was rough with a harsh tone that sent shivers down my spine.
“You won’t kill her.” His dark brows flicked up and he smirked at Ben. “Her husband will cut off your balls and shove them down your throat if you do. And despite wanting to see that, I’d advise letting her go before I kill her myself.” He readjusted his aim from Ben to me. “I live. She dies. Then her husband tortures you. Seems fair enough.”