Page 49 of His Black Onyx

"Not everybody was brought up around crime," I seethe. "I bet your father taught you how to do this before you even started school."

He shakes his head as he lets out a jeer. "Yeah, right. I doubt my father ever came close to even touching a gun."

A somber expression replaces the sneer on his face, revealing stories of a past that he prefers to keep buried. I'm empathetic to his pain, but my curiosity gets the better of me.

"I thought you grew up in the Covey?" I say, surprised.

"Well, you're wrong," he snips, casting me a warning look. "I joined them when I was still a teenager, but I didn't exactly grow up with them. I wasn't born into this."

Our eyes connect in a silent stare, while I contemplate whether I should follow up with the question that's dancing on my tongue. I know so little about him, despite the intimacy he has forced between us, but I have little hope of receiving anything other than a harsh reminder to shut my mouth if I keep asking questions that make him uncomfortable.

Then again, what do I have to lose?

"Where were you born then?" I ask. "Where did you grow up?"

"Here and there," he says, surprising me with a swift, even response. "In a world very different from this one."

"Different? How so?"

A crease appears between his eyebrows, his face becoming visibly strained as he lowers his gaze down to the gun in his hand.

"A world full of money, full of pretension—and very little tenderness," he says. "It hardens you in a way that makes you suitable for crime, even though that's definitely not the path my parents laid out for me."

He adds a dark scoff to his words as he racks the slide of the gun, forcing his focus to a motion that I'm sure he could do in his sleep without looking. He's avoiding making eye contact with me because my questions force him to recall a time he prefers to leave behind.

And as much as his tortured expression gets to me, seeing him like this also fills me with a weird sense of power.

He may be my kidnapper, and he may hold dominance over me by forcing me to be his prisoner—but he's also human. He's just as vulnerable as any person, he has a weak spot, a sad history, and he's willing to expose that part of him to me.

"What path did your parents lay out for you?" I venture, fully aware that this question might be putting me into dangerous territory.

He's about to turn to me, his lips parting to give me a response, when we get interrupted before the words have a chance to leave his mouth.

"Nate!"

The deep voice bellows from the house, causing both of us to flinch in surprise. Daveed, the taller, more dangerous-looking of the other two, is running towards us, his eyes wide and marked by concern.

Nate immediately turns in his direction, seemingly forgetting about me.

"What's wrong?"

Nate’s obvious concern is contagious, making my heart speed as well.

"We have to go," Daveed gasps, his breathing heavy. "We have to get the fuck out of here—right now!"

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