Page 21 of The Deal

“What?” he asks. He’s so close I can feel his warm breath skate across my skin.

Is he leaving my dad alone in the front room? I roll my lips to hide my smile—such an amateur move.

If I stall long enough, hopefully, my father will have the sense to make his escape. It’s not like he can run, but he may have enough time to leave the house and go to one of the neighbours.

Scurrying down the hallway towards my bedroom, I notice the back door is still ajar. That’s obviously how they got in since the front door wasn’t an option.

If my dad weren’t so maimed by his injuries, I’d get him to climb through the window like I do, so I could permanently nail that door closed as well.

When I enter my bedroom, I pause in the centre. Like the rest of the house, it’s nothing flashy, but I’ve made it my own over time. It holds no resemblance to the princess room I had when I was younger. My walk-in wardrobe was more expansive than this entire space.

It’s not the wealth or grandeur of my old life that I miss. The real measure of wealth is what you have left once it’s all gone, which, for me, is my dad. That’s if he doesn’t end up with a bullet in his head by the time the day is through.

That thought has me glancing over my shoulder and narrowing my eyes. Our captor is standing in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space and casting a shadow that makes the room feel smaller.

I don’t want him in here. This is my sanctuary, the place where I can hide away from the world and just be me for a moment. But if I want to give my father enough time to escape, I don’t have a choice.

“Is this where you sleep?” he asks. It’s just a simple question, and thankfully—for his sake—I don’t detect any judgement in his voice.

“Yes. Don’t get any ideas, hotshot. I’m not looking for a redo. I’ve been there and done that, and it was nothing towrite home about. Besides, I don’t sleep with gun-toting thugs.”

He barks out a laugh. “Your first sentence contradicts the second since we’ve already been together.”

“Which is something I’ll forever regret,” I retort.

“Liar,” he says as his lips thin.

“It’s the truth,” I reply, raising my chin slightly. “Fortunately, it was pretty … forgettable, so it’s not something I’ll be reminded of moving forward.”

His smug grin is back, and I’m tempted to slap it right off his handsome face, but I don’t want to push my luck. He’s got some nerve.

“There was nothing forgettable about the time we shared, Chloe,” he growls. “Or the multitude of orgasms I gave you.”

I hate that I like how my name sounds when it passes his lips.

I lift one shoulder, feigning indifference. “I faked them … every single one,” I lie. What I’m really doing is stalling. I can’t tell if my father has slipped past yet because this guy’s hulk of a body is blocking my line of sight.

“Get what you need,” he snaps. “I have places to be and things to do.”

“Oh, so we’re not the only people you plan on popping off today? Are you on a killing spree? I never picked you for a mass murderer.”

His brown eyes darken further—if that’s even possible. He takes a step towards me, and those pesky little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. When he raises the gun in his hand, my breath hitches in the back of my throat.Shit.I’ve pushed him too far.

“One,” he breathes, and my eyes widen. By the time he says, “Two,” I’ve already sprung into action and dragged my bed away from the wall.

Falling to my knees, I slide the boxes I strategically placed there, in an attempt to hide this spot from my father, out of the way. I never told him about the jewels my mother left for me. It would’ve been a temptation too great if he’d known of their existence. Having these always gave me some comfort.

Things have been pretty dire for a while, but I’ve always managed to scrape by one way or another. Now, I feel sick to my stomach, knowing I’m about to lose my safety net … my last link to my past.

When I lift the loose floorboard, my heart sinks. The blue velvet box is gone. I swear I feel all the blood drain from my face as I turn my head and glance up at my captor.

“It’s not here,” I whisper.

“What’s not there?” he asks.

“The jewels.” I hate that my voice cracks when I say that. I don’t like showing weaknesses … especially to someone like him. “They’re gone.”

“You think I’m stupid enough to believe you had jewels hidden away when you live a life of poverty?”

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