Page 17 of Lose Me In The Shadows

God, she was so fucked.

She could tell the Tweedles what she knew? Of course. Torture did not sound remotely fun, and what did she owe them? By now they had to already know that her—nother, the—men were somewhere in Wyoming and Idaho, or at least had been, but the cabin was buried away in the woods and surrounded by forest and that security fence.

Were they still there? Was Luke okay?

Not now, Kara. Focus on you.

Which brought her back to her dilemma. If she were smart—and Kara might be reckless, but she was usually smart—she would tell these men everything she knew about Luke, Conor, and Micah. Save her own skin, and besides, those assholes deserved whatever came to them. She had shot Luke for betraying her and playing her, hadn’t she? Knowing it would hurt the other two to see him in pain, feeling helpless, and allowing her to get away. So then why was she hesitating? Why did she feel like telling these paramilitary bad guys anything about her—no, nother—criminals was the real betrayal?

Her hesitation must have been an answer.

“Hacksaw or pliers? Or waterboarding?” Tweedle Dumber asked Tweedle Dumbest.

Everything in Kara froze up.Shewasn’t a Navy SEAL. She wasn’t trained to withstand torture. All of this sounded horrible, and she wasn’t okay with any of it.

“How about door number two?” she suggested, upset to hear the tremble in her voice.

Tweedle Dumb smiled beneath his mask. It was sinister.

“I was hoping you’d pick door number two,” he said, and began to unzip his pants. “Because there’s more than one way to torture a whore like you.”

Hell the fuck no. Kara might be a slut—she’d certainly bent every which way for her previous kidnappers—but it was different. She’d known them and, god forgive her, she’dwantedthem. The power dynamic might have been fucked, but they’d given her a safe word. This asshole? The only thing she wanted to do to his dick was bite it off.

And wasn’t that a tough pill to swallow. That shedidwant to swallow…if it was Micah’s, Luke’s, or Conor’s. That as much as she hated them, she also…

…didn’t.

Maybe more than didn’t hate them.

“Get that thing near me and you won’t like what happens,” she threatened.

The words were empty. Her heart was racing, and not in a good, sexy way, because she wasn’t sure how she was going to keep herself safe. If only Conor were here…she hated the asshole, she did (she was a liar and a half), but he wouldn’t let anyone touch her or hurt her. He’d keep her safe.

He’d promised. Two years ago, but the promise still stood.

But they weren’t there. She’d been reckless in her need to escape, and now she had to figure out how to save herself.

“Why am I really here?” she asked, thinking she knew the answer.

Before the Tweedles could answer, there was a knock on the door.

The three men looked at each other, and Kara’s stomach dropped. If Conor or Micah were here to rescue her—or some actual hero she hadn’t thought of yet—they wouldn’t knock. They’d come in, guns blazing.

The door opened. And there, in the doorway, stood someone she’d never expected to see again. And hadn’t wanted to.

His hairline had receded, limp brown-blonde hair gelled back from his face in the style of a much younger man. His thick blonde eyebrows—eyebrows she’d traced in bed while she’d stared into his face and dreamed naïve young dreams—were going pepper grey. And his thick Buddy Holly glasses, which she’d once found an endearing part of his literary, professorial persona, now seemed pretentious and sinister. His slim, tall body had gone soft in places, pulling at the painfully try-hard tweed blazer. He’d changed, in some ways, but his pale grey, manipulative eyes were the same.

Once, she’d desired him so much, she’d fucked up her entire life.

Now, seeing him just filled her with sick, almost nauseating revulsion, and the copper taste of fear.

“Hello, Kara,” Chris Johnathan said.

Micah hated feeling out of control.

He brought chaos. He reveled in it. But like any truly destructive tornado, he was always the eye of the storm.

Not now. The woman of his dreams had caused a living nightmare: Luke lay unconscious on the kitchen island, practically still as the Doctor stood over him and periodically checked his vitals; Marcus murmured quietly on his phone, likely to either one of his clients or sugar babies; and Conor sat, head in his hands, his lips moving in what Micah thought might be a silent prayer. It was funny, maybe ironic, considering that the only one of them with any sort of religious background was Micah. But if god existed, they’d turned their back on Micah long ago, around the time his family and community had declared him dead to them.

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