The guy grins at him.“You’re in no position to make demands, are you?”
I fight against the gag as the van starts moving.
“You got something to say, pretty?”he reaches forward and tugs the gag free.
“You have to let me get pressure on his injury, or he’ll die.”
“What’s that to me?”the man asks, tone uninterested.
“Cut her loose so she can tend to him,” another man who still has his mask on says.
“Why?We weren’t here for him.”
“Boss might say otherwise.Now, cut.Her.Loose.”The order is clipped, frustrated.
With a muttered protest, the man with the scar leans forward.“Turn around, pretty.I can’t cut you free if you’re facing me.”
The idea of showing my back to this man, of being vulnerable in any way, makes my skin crawl.But Sawyer’s life depends on it, so I swallow hard…and turn.
He rips me back against his body, a move meant to intimidate.Instead of letting it work, though, I close my eyes and focus on the place I created in my mind where no one—not even Victor—could ever touch me.
The moment my hands are cut free, I shed my jacket and apply it to the wound in Sawyer’s side.He looks up at me.“I’m sorry,” he says.“I should have been able to help.”
“It’s not your fault.”Tears in my eyes, I keep pressure as the van barrels down the road, going who knows where.“This is my fault.”
He narrows his gaze on my face.
“They’re here for me, and you got caught in the crossfire.I’m so sorry, Sawyer.You should have kept running.Then you’d be okay.”
“But you’d be alone,” he whispers.“And don’t worry.”He looks past me, so I follow his gaze where the man who’d cut me free is sitting at the back of the van beside the man who’d ordered him to do it.They’re engaged in a low conversation, so I lean down closer.“The others will come,” he says.“It’s kind of what we do.”
I swallow hard, hoping that he’s right, but also not wanting to point out one very harsh truth: Will we be alive when they do?