Stolen Love (Beauty in the Stolen 3)

The term of endearment jars me. He has no right to call me that. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Looks like you don’t have a choice.”

“I can sort myself out.”

He snorts. “You’re shot, bleeding out, and have a cop set on killing you on your tail. Yeah. I can see how you’ll sort yourself out.”

“What then? Am I your prisoner again?”

He clenches his jaw. “If being with me is worse than taking your chances at being murdered, it says a lot about your feelings for me.”

“Good,” I bite out, barely suppressing a groan of pain. “I’m glad you got the message.”

A muscle ticks in that hard-set jaw, but he says nothing.

I sneak a look at him from where I’ve shifted down to lean with my shoulder against the door. He still has that half-shaved, rebellious haircut and stubble to round off the look, but his face looks older. The lines cutting from his nose to his mouth are deeper.

To his credit, he doesn’t pepper me with the questions that show in his murky brown eyes. He keeps his gaze on the road and his concentration on survival.

Survival, love, humility.

Love, survival, humility—in that order. Love comes first.

I shake myself out of it, not wanting to remember good things about him. About us. I need to hate him. Luckily, my emotions start taking a backseat as my body grows weaker and survival becomes my priority too. I don’t need the inked words on my skin. It’s the way I’m wired. It’s habit. Instinct.

The white line on the road blurs in the headlights of the Jeep. It doubles, splitting in two. Shit. My vision drifts in and out of focus.

There are things I need to know. I haven’t come this far for nothing.

“Ian.”

He glances at me. The wind blows his hair around his face. His eyebrows are pulled together. The worry he wears openly on his face doesn’t reassure me.

“Why did you kill me?” I ask.

His frown deepens before his gorgeous eyes flare. A beat passes. His features even out as he turns his face back to the road. “I can ask you the same thing.”

“I didn’t kill you.” Not yet.

“Not with a bullet.”

What? I slide lower in my seat. Here we are, back to square one, enemies like on the night we met for the first time.

No. I wasn’t his enemy. I was his obsession. Now I’m his liability, just like I’m Wolfe’s. I’m not stupid. Wolfe didn’t simply aim that gun at me instead of Ian because I was the one holding a weapon. He went for the kill. He wanted me dead. I hold incriminating evidence that will ruin his life if it comes out. That’s as good a motive as it gets.

I breathe through my mouth to manage the pain when the gates of the lodge become visible up ahead.

“You hold on, do you hear me?” he says in a tight voice.

I am. I’m fighting with everything I’ve got. “Where are you taking me?” He mentioned a helicopter. “From here, I mean.”

His knuckles turn white around the wheel.

Shit. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a plan.

Weakly, I utter, “I think I need a doctor.”

Again, he says nothing, his silence confirming the truth.

The guards open the gates and jump out of the way when he speeds through. He drives down the dirt road and stops at the main building with screeching tires. A helicopter stands in the clearing. Actually, it looks more like a giant dragonfly. My heart sinks when he gets my door, lifts me into his arms, and carries me to that toy-like contraption that’s supposed to carry us through the air.

“Seriously?” I ask.

He gives me a strained smile. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

The attempt at humor works. Something dark lifts from my chest. The permanent tightness in my ribcage eases. If Ian Hart can disarm me and exorcise the toxic sentiments that have been festering inside the cavity of my chest for more than a year, he’s more dangerous than what I ever gave him credit for.

He lifts me onto the passenger seat, secures my safety belt, and gets in next to me. His words flitter in and out of cognizance as he speaks to a control tower. The blades start spinning, and a moment later, we’re in the air.

“Do you know where we’re going yet?” I taunt.

He doesn’t take the bait. He focuses his attention on flying his giant insect as he says, “I’ll figure it out on the way.”

I hope he does because nothing makes sense to me. I cling to my will to have my answers. I cling to the image of his face and the competent movements of his strong hands until everything splinters into a kaleidoscope that slowly turns white.

Chapter 5

Ian

Cas is unconscious before we’ve left Zimbabwean airspace.

Blood loss.

She once took a bullet out of my shoulder and stitched me up, but I took a bullet from a .22-caliber rifle, a relatively low-powered weapon, at long range. She was shot with a more powerful weapon at close range.