“You can take the train to Washington Street and it’s a couple of blocks walk from there.”
“Washington Street?”
She walks to the end of the counter toward the window and points up. “That one. East-bound. It’s about six stops.”
I look up, nod. “Thank you,” I say, and walk out into the cold as I open the bag of chips and cram a handful into my mouth. I hurry up the stairs to the platform where I just miss the train. I mutter a curse and duck under the shelter to try and keep dry.
7
Dante
I stand on the decrepit street trying to catch a glimpse of her. She only had maybe a ten or fifteen-minute head start on us, but she’s vanished. I look into alleyways and eye the bums huddling around their fires. I climb up and down the stairs of the trains wondering if she’s up there. She’ll be freezing in what she’s wearing, and I don’t even want to think about what would happen if she got herself cornered in one of these alleys. This is not the best neighborhood.
“Anything?” I ask Matthaeus as he crosses the street toward me.
“Nothing.”
“Fuck.” I walk to the bums at the far corner, smell the stench of liquor and body odor from here. Three turn toward me, one of them with a grin that shows his lack of teeth. “You guys seen a girl out here? About this tall.” I gesture to the middle of my chest. “Wearing a gray hoodie. Blonde hair.”
They look at each other then over my shoulder.
I follow their gaze to another man who is bending to pick up what looks to be a discarded still-smoking cigarette butt. He puts it to his lips and takes a drag. I turn back to the others and take out my wallet. “Well?”
They glance down at it and the one without the teeth talks. “Pretty little thing.” He pauses, eyes on my wallet.
My fingers tighten around the leather, and I grit my teeth. I take out a hundred-dollar bill. “She was here?”
He holds out his hand and all their eyes follow that bill as I hand it over. “Talked to Bart over there for a minute then ran off.”
“Bart.” I turn to find the one with the cigarette staring at us. When he sees my expression, he tosses the butt away and takes off down the street.
Matthaeus and I both go after him and it takes about half a block before I’ve got him by the collar, his back against the wall.
“Where is the girl?”
“I didn’t touch her.”
I give him a shake. “Where is she?”
“Ran away. That way.” He points.
I toss him aside and Matthaeus and I take off in that direction, running several blocks before we slow down as a throng of people rush down the stairs of the platform above.
“Fuck! Get the fuck out of the way!”
But this is New York so no one does. That’s when I see it. My hoodie. A strand of long white-blonde hair escaped from beneath blowing in the cold wind as she rushes to board the train.
“There,” Matthaeus says, seeing her at the same time.
We shove our way through the mass of people but we’re too late. The train doors close and it’s already leaving the station before we’re even on the platform. I catch a final glimpse of her and look up at the train line.
“I know where she’s going,” I say, realizing something. Remembering what she said.
“Where?” Matthaeus asks, looking at me like I’m crazy.
“The hotel.” This line will take her near it.
“She’s going back there? Why the fuck would she do that?” he asks.
I look at him briefly before flying down the stairs to wave down the next cab, practically throwing myself in front of it.
“She asked if it was a test. A trick,” I say as the driver hits the gas when I toss a hundred-dollar bill into the seat beside him with the promise of another hundred if he gets us there at the speed of light. I watch out the windshield, the snow slowing down traffic. When we’re about two blocks out I turn to Matthaeus. “Keep going in the cab. Watch the subway exits. I’m going on foot to the hotel.”
“Petrov’s men will be looking for you.”
“Better they find me than her, don’t you think?” I push the door open, slamming it closed behind me, before he can say more. I hurry down the sidewalk, keeping my head down against the heavy fall of snow. At least there’s less people out.
I’m about a block away when I see Petrov’s soldiers. Matthaeus was right but like I said, better they find me than her. They’re standing at the front entrance of the hotel looking like a couple of goons. I pull my baseball cap down at the front. I always wear a hat these days. Helps to have something to cast a shadow over my face so people don’t fucking stare at the half-monster coming at them.
I scan the intersection, glad it’s a busy one, and cross to the other side, giving the finger to the asshole who almost runs me over. It’s when I’m turning to watch the stairs coming out of the tunnel that I see her. She must have gotten off at the earlier stop. She has the hoodie up. Most of her hair is tucked inside it and she’s hunching against the cold. She stops when she’s in the middle of the block and looks up at The Hudson straight ahead of her. She doesn’t see me watching her but I’m half a block away between the hotel and her. The snow has become a white wall between us.
She moves quickly heading straight to me in her haste to get back to the hotel.
I start to move toward her, hoping to block her from the soldiers’ view. Her steps have slowed. She has her head down against the snow. Someone walks out of the liquor store just as she’s passing the door and collides right into her, knocking her backward. She stumbles and I’m only a few steps away then. I don’t look behind me, hoping we’re too far for Petrov’s soldiers to see us.
The man apologizes, moves past her.
And that’s the moment she sees me.
She freezes in place, mouth falling open in surprise. And it takes her a split second to make the decision to run. She spins and takes off, but she doesn’t go back down the sidewalk. She takes off into the street, looking back at me as she does, she doesn’t notice the SUV that’s coming down the road straight at her.
The driver hits the break, but the road is slippery, and the SUV goes into a spin, blaring his horn. She stops, turns to the sound and over every other noise, I hear her scream. I charge toward her, not knowing whether it’s adrenaline giving me the speed I need or maybe fate fucking giving me a break for once, but I wrap an arm around her middle and pull her out of the SUVs path just before it would slam into her. I don’t stop running and I don’t let go of her until we’re around the corner and out of sight of the hotel. She’s squirming but I don’t care. A few moments later, I hear the horn of the taxi and Matthaeus pushes the back door open. I get her inside, forcing her head down as we pass the hotel and Petrov’s men back to the warehouse.
8
Mara
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Dante barks when we’re back inside the warehouse. I back away from him as soon as he lets me go.
Matthaeus is here too. He rode with us to a place about an hour from where we got into the taxi. We changed cars, then drove back to the warehouse in case Petrov’s men followed us.
“Take it easy,” Matthaeus tells Dante.
“Just take care of the fucking locks,” Dante orders.
Matthaeus looks like he wants to say something but changes his mind, glances at me then disappears down the hall. I watch him go and some part of me wants to ask him to stay. To be a buffer between Dante and me.
“I asked you a fucking question!”
I startle, Dante’s tone commanding my attention. He pulls his baseball cap off and hurls it across the room, pushing a hand through his hair. Some of it flops over the right side of his face, partially obscuring the patch.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he asks.
He's angry? I’m angrier. I breathe a sharp breath in and step toward him. “I was almost back! I almost made it!”
“For fuck’s sake.” He loo
ks at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. With a shake of his head, he moves to where the bottle of whiskey sits on the coffee table. He lifts it and one of the empty glasses, pouring, then straightens and watches me as he drinks it in one swallow before pouring a second.
I’m so angry I charge at him, wrestle the bottle from him and smash it against the far wall. The sound is strangely satisfying. Making me feel in control, powerful. At least for a split second.
“You fucking jerk!” I slam my hands hard enough into his chest to almost budge him. “I was almost back! It’s not fair!”
He captures my wrists and holds my arms at my sides. “Fair? What the fuck are you talking about? Don’t you get it? You’re not going back. I’m taking you home. Don’t you want to go home?”
“Home?” Now it’s me who can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “What home do you think you’re taking me to exactly? I have no home. Don’t you get it?” He loosens his grip and I slip my wrists free. Tears burn my eyes. “You’re just making it worse.” My voice breaks but I scrub my eyes and steel my spine. “I’m leaving!” I spin on my heel and walk toward the door.
“Leaving?” he snorts. “Like hell you are!” His steps are heavy behind me.
I close my hand over the doorknob, turn it, open it. In the same instant his big hand is flat against the door over my head, pushing it closed before I get it all the way open. He turns the key in the lock then pockets it before leaning down close to me. So close, I can feel the heat coming off him, smell his aftershave. It makes me shudder, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. And it puts my body on high alert.
Because when he’s this close, something happens to my insides.
“You’re not going anywhere without my say so,” he says and my breath catches. His voice is low, a vibration against my skin sending a chill down my spine. “Understand that.”
When I can breathe again, I slowly turn to face him. He’s so close that all I see is him. All I breathe is him, his big body in front of me, arms caging me in. My heart is racing, my stomach in knots as I force myself to look up at him. But I can’t keep eye contact. Can’t take how his gaze is drilling into me.
I turn away. Force myself to think. To not feel what it is I’m feeling. I need to steel myself against him.
“I’m going,” I say to his chest, my tone somehow firm in spite of my quaking insides. It’s not fear exactly, though. Fear has a different texture. A different smell.
He gives me a one-sided grin like he’s humoring me. I set my palms against his wall of a chest, trying to shove him away but it’s impossible to budge him.
I need to get out.
I slide my hands up to his shoulders feeling the contour of powerful muscle beneath and strangely, I find myself lingering, curious. I shift my gaze to his broad chest, to my hands small on the wide expanse of his shoulders. My heart pounds against my chest and I lick my lips before shifting my gaze back to his and I wonder if he can hear my heart beating.
But when his expression changes, the way he looks at me different, I catch myself.
What am I doing? I need to get out.
He clears his throat and nods and I swear he looks like he’s about to call me a good girl but that’s not what this is. I’m not his good girl. I’m not anyone’s good girl. I never was, not for any of them.
Instead, I grip his shoulders and jerk my knee up between his legs, ramming it into his groin.
He grunts, hunching forward. It hurts, I see it on his face. Feel it in the tight barely controlled grip of his hands when they close over my shoulders, pinning me to the door as he manages the pain.
“Christ. Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. He draws one hand into a fist, and I think this is it. He’s going to hit me.
I let out a pathetic whimper, all my bravado gone. I curl into myself, tuck my chin, cover my ears with my hands and keep my arms tight to my torso to protect my stomach. But the hit doesn’t come. No slap. No punch to my temple or my belly. Just that fist slamming into the door above my head, rattling it in its hinges.
“I’m not going to hit you,” he says through clenched teeth, voice like sandpaper.
It’s a trick. He’s waiting until he can see my face. Watch me when he hurts me.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I hope it’s a slap. Fists hurt more than flat hands. But I can’t bring myself to look up. To just get it over with.
“I said look at me.”
I shake my head.
“I’m not going to hit you. I wouldn’t. Ever. Just look at me.”
I still don’t.
“Please, Mara.”
His tone twists something inside me and before I can stop myself, I shift my gaze. I look up at him, confused, off balance. Unsure what to do. I shouldn’t have hurt him, but I’m confused by my reaction to him. That feeling in my stomach when he’s close like this. When he’s looking at me like this. Confused that he won’t hit me. Won’t make me fight him. It’s what I know. It’s what I can do. I’ll lose. That’s a fact. I always lose. But fighting helps. Like I’m not just giving it to them. Like I’m not complicit in my captivity.
“Don’t fucking do that again, understand?” he says.
That’s it? Just that? I need him to fight me. Doesn’t he get it? This other thing, this other way he is, I can’t make sense of it. So, I curl my hands into claws and scratch down both sides of his face. I scream like some wild animal as I do, forcing him to hurt me back. Needing him to.
He curses under his breath and grips my hands, pulling them away. My fingernails are bloody and his grip is tighter than it’s been. Red lines form on his cheeks and I know they sting. Still, all he does is look at me like he pities me. Like I’m some pathetic thing to be pitied and I can’t stand it.
“Fight me!” I scream. “Fight me like a man!”
“I know the kind of men you’ve been around, but let me tell you something,” he starts, pulling my wrists behind my back. “Men don’t fight women. They don’t hit women.” He releases me and looks me over. “Go inside and get out of those wet things.”
That’s it? I turn around to try the door again, but it’s locked. He has the key which is why he’s not bothering to stop me.
“Let me out of here!”
“So you can go back to Petrov?”
“Yes!”
“That’s not happening. That’s never happening. He will never get his hands on you again. I’m taking you home.”
Home. God. There it is again.
“Don’t you remember your home?” he asks.
“I told you. I don’t have a home.”
“Yes, you do. With a grandmother who loves you. Who wants you back. With people who care about you.”
I shake my head, cover my ears to try to tune out his words. I can’t hear this. I don’t want to remember this. I can handle anything else. Beatings. Their hands on me. But this is too hard. Because this reminds me of everything and everyone I lost. The life that was stolen before I had a chance to live it.
“That was the last of my whiskey,” he says then, gesturing to the smashed remnants of the bottle.
“Punish me then.” I try because I need him to. I need him to hurt me because if he hurts me then I know where we stand. I understand that. In a way, I understand pain.
His forehead wrinkles and he studies me. I wonder what he sees. If he’s reading my mind.
“Do it,” I push.
“No.”
“Yes!” I grab hold of his patch and am about to yank it off in my rage when he catches my wrists. The next thing I know, he knocks my legs out from under me and hauls me over his shoulder. My wrists in one hand, the other arm wrapped around my thighs. He stalks down the hallway with me across his shoulders. I can hear a drill going but before I can see where it’s coming from, he opens another door and dumps me on a bed. Then he’s on top of me, his weight crushing my lungs making it impossible to breathe.
“Don’t do that. Don�
�t ever fucking do that. Am I fucking clear?”
“Why? Are you afraid I’ll see you for what you are?”
A moment passes between us, strange and fraught with an edge of danger and something else. Something dark. After the pause he releases my wrists to stretch my arms out to the sides.
“Am I fucking clear?” he asks, voice low. When I don’t answer right away, he continues. “I’m being patient with you, Mara.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
We’re so close, I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I’m panting. Worn out. And he’s breathing heavy, gaze searching my face, falling on my mouth.
I lick my lips because for a moment, I think the strangest thing.
I think he’s going to kiss me.
The room goes dead silent, even the drilling has stopped. But after an eternity, he leans away.
I blink, remember myself as my face flushes with heat. Does he know what I was thinking? Did he read my mind again?
“Fuck,” he mutters, looking away, shaking his head as he releases my arms, starts to lift his weight from me.
But then everything changes.
Because that’s when I feel it. Feel him.
He must know the instant I do because he shifts his gaze away and clears his throat, climbing off the bed. He stands, scrubs his face and I sit up. Before he can turn away, I see it. The erection he wants to hide.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says almost hoarsely. “Christ. It’s the last fucking thing I want.”
I get to my feet. Watching as he adjusts himself before turning back to me. He knows I know. He must.
“You’re like him. Just like him.”
He’s quiet for a very long moment, studying me intently before he answers. “I’m not like him.”
“I felt you.”
His jaw clenches.
“You may say you don’t want to fight me, but you got hard doing it. So how are you different?” I ask, not looking away.
“Mara—”
I step toward him close enough that we’re almost touching. “Tell me how you’re different,” I hiss.
Stolen: Dante’s Vow Page 5
