Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

“What would you have done if you were in Mint’s shoes?” I scoff. “Fight?”

“For you?” His teeth flash in the bluish light. “Tooth and nail. I’d kill with my bare hands to protect what’s mine.”

I shut my mouth at that. My verbal ammunition runs dry, preventing me from formulating a comeback. Yeah, Mint ran, leaving me to this man’s mercy. I won’t lie and say I’m not a little pissed off at how easily he abandoned me, seeing that he’s been telling me for over a year I’m his fated soulmate, but it’s not like we’re together. Can I blame him for saving his own backside?

“Don’t justify his behavior in that pretty little head of yours,” he says. “Only a coward would run and leave his date to fend for herself.”

The fact that he knows what I’m thinking jars me. I lash out, for a moment forgetting to be afraid. “Don’t you dare judge him for your crime.” My stomach tightens with a knot of anxiety. Accusation is thick in my voice. “It’s dangerous out on that road. What if Mint doesn’t make it home, huh? Have you thought about that? What if he’s killed or run over?”

“Are you seriously concerned about that dork?”

I glare at him. “Are you for real?”

“Eyes on the road.”

The soft way in which he speaks only makes me angrier and more frightened. My dad used to be so gentle with the cows when he loaded them onto the truck for the abattoir.

More tears roll over my cheeks. I swipe at them with the back of my hand, angry with myself for showing this weakness.

He brushes away the wetness on my cheek with a thumb. “He’s not worth your tears.”

Slapping his hand away, I say through clenched teeth, “Don’t touch me.”

It’s an idle request and a useless threat. He can touch me all he likes. I wouldn’t be able to fight him off. Yet to my surprise, he drops his hand.

“He’ll catch a lift with someone.” His tone is dry. “Let’s hope he flags down a car. He seems pathetic enough not to manage on his own.”

“He’ll go to the police.”

“Probably.” He doesn’t seem fazed about that. “I assume he’d want his car back.”

My voice falters. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” he says. “Don’t worry. By morning, you’ll be on your way.”

I clench my fingers around the wheel. “How can I believe you?”

“You have my word. I never go back on it.”

I don’t believe him. I try to come up with a plan of escape, like crashing us into a tree, but I don’t have the courage. Not after my parents.

Before we reach the casino, we turn left and follow a dirt track that runs through the open fields. He gives me cryptic directions, all the while watching me with that unsettling stare.

After driving for forty-five minutes, he tells me to take a smaller road that passes a cracked concrete dam with a crooked windpump. The wheel is missing a few blades. We follow the track to a cluster of trees. The moon is almost full, illuminating the flat, deserted field surrounding us.

“Park here,” he says. “Behind the trees.”

The headlights shine on a house. It’s square with a flat roof. Judging by the peeling paint and broken windows boarded up from the inside, it’s abandoned.

Oh, God.

I start trembling when he gets out, comes around, and opens my door. He takes the key out of the ignition, pockets it, and offers me a hand. For a few heavy heartbeats, I only stare at the broad palm and long, slender fingers. His grip is strong but gentle when he finally grows tired of waiting and grabs my bicep to drag me out of the car.

It’s past three in the morning, and the temperature has dropped more. It’s fresh, but my shivers have nothing to do with the cool air that smells of the dust the car has kicked up. At least it doesn’t stink of urine. I drag in a few breaths, trying to steady the erratic beating of my heart.

Please, don’t fail me now.

Already, the rhythm is uneven and a dull ache spreads between my ribs with every beat. I’ll have to take my pills soon.

Flexing his fingers around my arm, he pushes me ahead of him to the door. He has my bag under his arm and the gun in his hand. He has to let go of me to fish a key from his pocket. I consider running. I don’t want to die, but that bullet in my back may be a better fate than the one awaiting me inside.

“You’re safe with me,” he says, reading my thoughts again. He hands me the key. “Open the door.”

The promise is spoken kindly, and I long to believe it. I long to trust the soothing assurance even as my logical mind says criminals can’t be trusted.