Page 32 of Tempting Fate

“I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t trust you either.”

My honest answer is met with a scoff of derision. I brace for him to strike out with his fists, but he doesn’t. Chancing a peek at Alex through lowered lashes, I’m stunned to find that while he’s raking my bra-covered breasts with hungry eyes, there is hope in his posture. And that’s when I know, deep, deep down in the pit of my stomach, that this new plan is going to work.

“I think that was the first truthful thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” I tell him. “We can start again… a clean slate. No more lies. No more fighting. Away from Perth.”

Our gazes lock. I widen my eyes and thrust my chest closer to him. Alex smiles. Then he reaches for the keys to the handcuffs. “Angel, you have no idea how happy this makes me.”

As he uncuffs me, I fight to keep hold of my optimism. If this doesn’t work, I’ve jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire for nothing. So many things can go wrong between this room and whatever vehicle he’s planning to use to take me away from Zeke. I might accidentally arouse his suspicion with my delaying tactics. His grip on sanity could snap. The Shamrocks may announce their arrival with a hail of bullets and I get caught in the crossfire.

There are too many potential obstacles to count.

Yet I still feel better being un-handcuffed.

Only one thing needs to go wrong for this to blow up in my face.

More than one thing needs to go right for this to work…

My fingers tremble as Alex grasps my wrist to pull me to my feet. My injuries pulse as pain engulfs me. My legs are jellylike as I do my best to step between Alex and the bag he is packing. My mind screams at me to be careful, yet there is a voice in my head that overrules the caution my brain demands.

It sounds like Zeke.

Telling me that my survival is paramount.

Reminding me that my track record for surviving Alex is one hundred percent.

Promising me that I’m strong enough to beat this monster.

“Change your clothes,” Alex tells me. “I don’t want my men to see you like this.”

I’m on autopilot, determined to be a docile little doll who does exactly what Alex requests. A robot, feeling nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, even as he orders me around like a possession. I have a sole objective, one way out of this nightmare, and I refuse to be distracted by old trauma and future guilt.

My hands are steady as I pull the torn shirt from my shoulders and bare my upper body to my enemy. My stance is wide as I unzip the ruined skirt and it drops to the floor. Alex’s mouth falls open when I unclip my bra. It dangles from my fingers for a moment, then I drop it to the ground. The madman in front of me watches the lace fall with wide eyes. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my ripped panties, wriggle my hips, and slowly work what’s left of them down my legs. All the while, centimetre by centimetre, Alex’s gaze follows the silken material. Down my thighs, over my knees, around the curve of my calf. I free one ankle, then step out of the other side and kick them toward him.

His Adam’s apple bobs.

Beaten but unbowed, I smile with as much sincerity as I can manage.

Alex swallows a second time at my lack of shame.

Standing tall and proud, I step closer. He automatically takes a step away from me as his prey instinct warns him of the impending danger that his male brain unconsciously ignores. I run a hand over my breast, down my stomach, and trail my fingertips over my inner thigh, then I reach past him to grab the t-shirt he threw at me earlier.

My nipples brush Alex’s upper arm.

He groans.

My muscles coil, ready to spring.

Never one to ask for permission, Alex palms my breasts, and his thumbs flick my nipples.

Feigning a full-body shudder of pleasure even as nausea grips me, I wrap my fingers around the pistol grip of the gun he tossed on top of the bag and promptly forgot about. Every lesson Toker ever gave me at the Shamrocks gun range pays dividends in the next second as I press the muzzle to Alex’s thigh. I squeeze the trigger. The bullet ejects. It tears through his flesh. Momentum pushes him to the right, and he catches himself with his palms on the mattress. I lunge for the handcuffs, securing one around his wrist, then dart out of his reach.

Alex leaps forward with a feral roar to grab me. “What the fuck? You whore.”

The grin that curls my lips when his leg buckles beneath him is genuine. He catches himself on the edge of the bed and plonks heavily on the mattress. I wave my hand in the general direction of Alex’s bleeding thigh, and tell him in a faux-sweet tone, “You might wanna tie something around that before you bleed out.”

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