I don’t hesitate. I dart through the space he’s created, sprinting for the stairs. If the gun had fallen closer, I would’ve dived for it, but he’ll tackle me before I can get a grip. Running is my best bet. He has to get the gun before he can chase after me, and it wins me more time.
My breaths come in spurts as I rush down the stairs, taking them two by two.
“Fuck,” he cries out from the landing.
His footsteps fall heavy behind me, enough to make me speed up more, almost tripping over my own feet.
“Cas,” he yells, his voice coming from somewhere too close behind me. “Slow down.”
I fly around the bend, gripping the rail for leverage as I take the next level. The door giving access to the underground parking is in view. Just when I think I’m going to make it, a fist closes around my bicep. My body is flung around, and my legs tangle, my ankle twisting painfully. The momentum makes me fall backward. The air whooshes from my lungs as my back hits the wall. Ian is in front of me, a boulder of solid muscle that presses me against the bricks. Tobacco and leather invade my senses. His grip on my arm is firm but not enough to hurt. It’s the wildness mixed with the fury in his eyes that scares me. It’s the gun tucked in his waistband that makes me go cold.
I fight for my life. Pressing my forearms together with my fingers interlocked, I bring up my hands with all the force I possess to break his hold on my arm, but the effort has no effect on him. His grip doesn’t loosen. Instead, he folds his free hand around my neck, giving a warning squeeze.
“Stop fighting, damn you,” he says through clenched teeth.
The door on the floor above us opens. A man with a suitcase in his hands exits on the stairs. He pulls a phone from his pocket when the door closes behind him. Ian doesn’t as much as glance in the direction of the threat. His gaze remains fixed on me, measuring my reaction. As I open my mouth to scream, he crashes his mouth on mine and swallows whatever sound I was hoping to make. I push on his shoulders, but he presses closer, trapping me under his heat and strength. The length of him covers me as he plunders my mouth while keeping me pinned to the wall with his big hand around my neck. His erection pushes against my stomach. His hardness grinds on my pubic bone.
Despite my fear, I grow wet. I’m both frightened and turned on, and the cocktail is a potent mix. The fear releases more adrenaline, and my arousal feeds on it. If given a choice, this is how I’d prefer to blow out my last breath—on this twisted high.
The man with the suitcase is engrossed in his phone. He gives a start when he notices us and quickly averts his eyes. My chance of rescue diminishes as he hurries past and disappears through the parking level door.
Some of Ian’s weight lifts, but he’s still pinning me to the wall with his body. He untangles our tongues and gives my bottom lip a punishing nip.
The color of his eyes is a smudge of smoldering brown flecked with amber as he pulls away to look at me. The longer hair on the one side of his head falls over his forehead and left eye. My ankle throbs with pain as we measure each other, me with defiance and him with determination.
“How are the cops tracking you?” he asks.
I hold his gaze but refuse to give him an answer. If I have any hope of getting out of here alive, it’s best he thinks the cops know where I am.
He tightens his fingers around my neck, giving me just enough air to breathe. “How?”
I lift my chin as much as his hold allows. “Do it.”
His nostrils flare. “You think I want to kill you?”
I spit the words at him. “Why else are you here with a gun?”
His smile is cold, almost cruel. Right now, he’s not the man who made me pancakes. He’s the dangerous man who detached himself from all feelings when my heart threatened to stop. He’s the man who acted fast and collected when he took the pills from my bag.
“Not to kill you,” he says.
“Then why the gun?”
He frowns. “To shoot open your door. I can’t pick an electronic lock, not without plenty of prior preparation.”
The vein pulsing in my neck flutters against his palm. He can feel my terror. If he sticks his hand into my panties, he’ll feel my excitement. I’m not immune to him. The problem is I never was. Even now as he threatens me with an unspoken message, deciding how much and when I breathe, I crave his protection. I crave his arms. I’m shaking in my shoes, enough to want to cling to him. I want to feel safe, but I’m not naïve enough to believe safety is a luxury I’ll ever have again. Not even with him. Especially not with him.