Booted (Trails of Sin 3)

He stares, and I stare right back, as much as I can with a busted eye. His demeanor is unnerving. Downright scary. It probably earned him an empire of respect in prison.

There’s no denying he’s the alpha among men. The biggest wolf of them all. And he just graduated from a maximum-security school for gangsters, predators, and murderers.

I brace for another growly order, but he doesn’t need his voice to intimidate. He commands with a rigid posture and unwavering eye contact. His terrifying calmness demands I explain myself and promises pain if I don’t.

Goosebumps skitter along my arms. Pain isn’t something I’m ready to experience again so soon. But I’m even less inclined to lie here and tolerate his silent attempt to terrorize me.

Fear doesn’t control me. He doesn’t know that, but he’s about to find out.

I swing my legs off the bed. “I’m leaving.”

He glares at my bare thighs. “Cover yourself.”

Wearing the sundress Maybe gave me, I tug the fabric to my knees and cringe at the dried red stains amid the flowery pattern.

My wounds are no longer bleeding, my memory a fog of constant agony. Pointy-toed boots, leather belts, angry knuckles, whips, blades, the floor, the wall—anything and everything was used as a weapon to punish me.

I’m physically beat down, but beneath the bruises, I seethe with determination. If Lorne, John’s sons, or anyone else tries to hurt me, I’ll stand up to them with everything I am.

If they want to help me, I’ll return the kindness with kindness. They lived with John, too, after all. Since we share that misery, maybe we can help one another.

“I need to get moving.” I peek at the devil with green eyes. “If you’ll help me—”

“No.”

“I just need something clean to wear and—”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

That answers that.

My toes curl against the hardwood flooring. I need shoes. Guess I’ll figure that out after I find the strength to stand.

I push off the bed and lock my knees against a vicious wave of shaking. Dizziness plummets through me, and I sway to remain upright. I should’ve eaten something. But even now, the thought of food makes my stomach shrivel in on itself.

I take a step and lose my balance, faltering.

Detached and expressionless, Lorne watches me wrestle with gravity without offering a hand or a word of encouragement.

Fuck him.

I attempt another step and careen toward the bed, missing it. My knees hit the floor with a bone-rattling smack.

A hot river of tears streams from the burn in my bad eye. I cry out in frustration and pound a fist against my thigh, hurting to the point of nausea.

Pain medication would be a blessing right now, but I said no doctors and no cops. For good reason.

Lorne observes my debility with indifference. I swear if he had a gun, he would raise it to my head and gently apply pressure to the trigger, just to play with the action between firing and not firing.

After a loaded span of breaths, he rises and exits the room, leaving me to fend for myself on the floor.

I slap at the tears streaking from my injured eye, which only aggravates the broken skin on my cheek. I’m not crying. It’s just… Dammit, everything hurts.

Indiscernible whispers sound from the hallway as I brace my hands on the mattress and attempt to hoist ineffective muscles.

Sweat beads on my temples, and my arms tremble uncontrollably. I make it to my feet as the tread of boots scuff behind me.

Lorne prowls into the room and returns to the chair without glancing in my direction.

“When did you get out?” I slump onto the edge of the bed, out of breath.

“Four hours ago.” He rests a loose fist beneath his mouth and stares at the window.

It’s a two-hour drive from the prison, and he was here when I woke.

“You spent your shiny new freedom watching me sleep?” I flex my hands on my lap.

“This is my room.”

“I’m on my way out.”

As soon as I muster the energy to walk. And eat. And steal a pair of shoes.

I press my bare feet together and blink at the floor. “If you could call me a cab and loan me a few dollars—”

The door opens, and Maybe breezes into the room, carrying a small tin box.

“You’re up.” She bathes me in the brightness of her smile.

“I’m working on it.”

She gives me a once-over and settles on my face. “Your eye is still watering.”

“It’s fine.” I wipe away the cascade of tears. “How long have I been here?”

“Two days.” She pats my shoulder and offers the box to Lorne. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes.” He takes it from her, lifts the lid, and removes a marijuana cigarette.

She purses her lips. “I really don’t think she should—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” He hands her the joint and a lighter from the box. “Light it.”