Page 80 of Turn That River Red

“Why?” I mutter. “So you can chase me down and kill me like you did Raul?”

He blanches at that—or at least, it looks like he does. I don’t know why he would care. He certainly recovers quickly enough, his features settling into a neutral expression.

“I’m taking you somewhere tonight.”

My fear spikes again, and even though I don’t move, I can tell Ambrose knows. He smiles as if my fear pleases him, and he shifts his weight, never taking his eyes off me.

I wait for him to explain, but he doesn’t.

“Where?” I whisper. “What are you doing to do to me?”

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says calmly. “Trust me, if I was going to do that, you wouldn’t see me coming.”

I bite back another surge of fear, and Ambrose smiles again, teasing and cruel.

“You’re safe with me,” he says. “I can’t promise much, but I can promise that.”

I watch him warily. “But you’re not going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No. I’m just letting you know. We’ll leave as soon as it gets dark.”

Then he steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

I roll onto my back, not sure what to think. I’m afraid of him, but, perhaps stupidly, I don’t think he’s a liar. He’s been honest about his atrocities.

But I still can’t imagine where a monster like him would want to take me after nightfall.

I don’t seeAmbrose until the sun sets. He strides back into my room, a stack of clothes in one arm and a pair of shoes in the other—flimsy ballet flats. He’s not exactly making it easy for me to escape across the scrubby west Texas landscape.

“Get dressed,” he says roughly, tossing everything on the rickety old desk in the corner.

“You’re still not going to tell me where we’re going?” I don’t move from the bed.

Ambrose frowns. “You know I’m capable of taking you wherever I want. Now get dressed and make this easy on yourself.”

I hate that he’s right. I hate even more that he uses that dark, commanding tone that makes my body throb with heat.

“Get out of here,” I snap, as if he hasn’t seen me at my most vulnerable, legs spread and moaning in ecstasy.

Ambrose smirks, clearly thinking the same thing. To his credit, he does step out into the hallway—although he leaves the door open. Fine.

I dig through the clothes he got me, a knot tightening in my throat. They’re nothing like the clothes I’m used to wearing. They’re… secular. Skimpy shorts, sleeveless tops. A strappy black dress that might as well be a nightgown, although it’s made out of cool, breathable cotton, the hems edged in lace.

I hate that I think it’s pretty. Hate that I finger the fabric between my thumb and forefinger and consider how much prettier this dress is than anything I wore at the Church of the Well. And probably more comfortable.

He bought me underwear, too, and a couple of plain bras. Somehow, he knew my size, which makes me feel odd because it makes me feel—cared for, somehow, even though it’s impossible. That demon doesn’t care about anything.

I peel out of the T-shirt and boxers and slide on my new clothes, going with the black dress because it feels the most familiar. Although it’s tight around the bodice and shows off mytoo-big chest, the skirt is loose around my thick hips and falls just past my knees. A semblance of modesty.

I tell myself I still care about modesty.

I put on the ballet flats and slink out of the bedroom. Ambrose waits for me, leaning up against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. When he sees me, he seems to go still, his eyes sweeping across my body, lingering briefly on my chest. I ought to feel exposed. I don’t.

“Looks good on you,” he says roughly.

I ignore him. I also ignore the fact that he’s dressed up, too, in dark slacks and a dark button-up shirt. He looks like the preacher I thought he was.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ve got to drive into town.”

---