Page 96 of Ruthless Intent

“I need clean clothes. Underwear mostly. And I should probably let my mom know I’m still alive.”

His attention fastens on me. I refuse to look away, and hold his gaze.

“Even prisoners get fresh underwear, Zain.”

A muscle pops in his jaw, and then he nods.

“Fine. But if you try to tell your mother what?—”

“You’ll have her arrested. Yes, I know.”

I’m honestly not convinced he will anymore. I don’t know why, just a gut feeling. Maybe watching the way he broke down during the recording has clouded my opinion of him. Maybe it’s the opposite, and seeing how devastated he seemed has helped to show me who he really is beneath the anger.

But, regardless of that, I’ve caused damage to this man. A lot of damage, as unintentional as it was. I understand his anger. And while I can never give him back the years he’s lost, I want to try and fix some of the harm I’ve caused.

It’s not going to be easy. But I’m confident I can do it. I just have to break through his anger.

What is it they say about being kidnapped? Talk to them, make them see you as human.

“Where are my shoes?”

“Downstairs.” He turns away, and I’m left with the impression that he expects me to follow him.

I don’t argue, and stay a step or two behind him as we walk along the hallway and down the stairs. He points to my shoes, placed neatly beside the door, and that’s when I notice the broken window.

“That window wasn’t broken last night.”

“No.”

“Did you break it?”

“No.”

“Then what happened?”

“None of your business.”

I push my feet into my sneakers, then crouch to lace them up, wincing when my jeans rub against my knees. When I straighten up, it’s to catch him staring at me. Our eyes lock, then he turns away.

“Where are we going?”

He ignores me, and opens the door.

“Zain.”

He steps outside, then turns. “You have the count of three to come out of the house, or I’m locking you in.”

“Could we please talk about the interview you showed me?”

“Three.”

I sigh. “Do we have to do this again? Can’t you just talk to me?”

“Two.”

“For god’s sake, Zain! I get it. I fucked up your life. But I was a child. A thirteen year old girl who walked in on a scene that no one that age should ever see. So, maybe instead of focusing your anger on me, you should be thinking about how someone managed to convince me that you were holding the knife, and why!”

My shout echoes around the sheltered driveway.

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