Page 15 of The Plunge

I nod weakly.

"Shit," he exclaims, shaking his head. "So you really are an Abbott."

"Yes, I fucking am an Abbott," I hiss at him. "But if you kidnapped me because you think I'm a lucrative bait, I'll have to disappoint you. No one's going to pay for my release."

He huffs, casting me a dark smirk. "No shit."

I press my lips together, trying to control the overwhelming urge to cry again.

"My entire family is dead." I give voice to the dark thought that provokes a new set of tears.

"Your uncle is alive," he objects.

Now, I'm the one huffing at him. "Maybe. But you saw what he did."

Our eyes meet, latching onto each other as neither one of us dares to speak the horrible truth. That my uncle pushed me in front of him and used me as a shield to save himself when this man was chasing him with a gun. This handsome but cruel man whose bullet hit me instead of the man he targeted, and who took care of me afterward, who took me away in the most spectacular way, and who made sure that my wounds were treated and my pain was dulled with some very effective and oddly pleasing medication.

"I'm sorry," the man says, surprising me. "I'm sorry for what happened to you tonight."

I frown at him. "That's a little ironic coming from the one who's responsible for it, don't you think?"

"I never meant to harm you," he insists.

"What did you mean to do?" I ask. "Kill my uncle? And my aunt?"

"Just your uncle. He was my target," he responds matter-of-factly as if it was the most natural thing to say. He almost sounds apologetic. "We didn't even know you existed until tonight."

"We?"

He meets my eyes with a subtly shocked face, looking remorseful.

"Who is we?" I probe.

But he just shakes his head.

"You need to rest," he says. "I'll ask them to up your morphine so you can get some sleep."

My eyes follow him with fearful indignation. "No! I want to know! You can't just leave me like this!"

His hand is already resting on the doorknob when he turns back to me. "You're safe here. Trust me."

I let out a dark laugh.

"Trust you? You have to be kidding me," I retort. "I don't even know where I am. This isn't a hospital, is it?"

His response is nothing but a dark look that wanders over to the side of my bed. My eyes follow his, horrified by what I find. My left arm crossed over my chest, kept in place by a splint and bandages all around my shoulder.

And my right wrist is handcuffed to the bed frame.

I'm badly hurt and handcuffed to a bed—and he tells me to trust him?

"Trust?" I utter, a blend of pain and terror lacing my voice. "Like you're trusting me?"

I lift my right hand as much as possible, yanking at the cuff.

"It's for your own safety," he says, turning the doorknob.

"At least tell me your name," I hurry to exclaim before he gets away from me.

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