Page 19 of Taken By the Outlaw

"You touched what's mine," Clark snarls, voice so cold, so different from any tone I've heard from him before. He punctuates his words with a punch that makes the man's head snap back against the brick. "You put your hands on her."

Another punch. Blood sprays from the man's nose.

"Clark," I call, voice shaking. "Clark, stop. Please."

He freezes at the sound of my voice, head turning slightly in my direction though his grip on the man doesn't loosen. "Emilia." My name sounds like it's being dragged over broken glass. "Are you hurt?"

"No," I whisper. "I'm okay."

He nods once, then turns back to his victim. "Tell Jonas that if he comes near what's mine again, there won't be enough left of him to bury." He slams the man's head against the wall one more time, then lets him crumple to the ground, unconscious or worse.

Then Clark is moving toward me, eyes wild, face spattered with blood that isn't his own. I should be terrified. Should be running from him as fast and far as I can. But all I feel is relief so profound it makes my knees buckle.

He catches me before I can fall, strong arms lifting me against his chest as if I weigh nothing. "I've got you," he murmurs, voice gentler now, though still edged with rage. "I've got you, sweetheart."

I cling to him, trembling, face pressed against his neck where I can feel his pulse racing. "How did you find me?"

"I will always find you," he says simply, carrying me to his motorcycle. "Always."

He sets me on the seat, then climbs on in front of me. "Hold onto me," he instructs. "Tight."

I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing myself against his back, drinking in his warmth, his solidity, his safety. The motorcycle roars to life beneath us, and then we're moving, speeding through the dark streets back toward the compound. Back toward captivity.

But it doesn't feel like captivity anymore. It feels like sanctuary. Like protection. Like where I belong.

Clark's body is rigid with tension beneath my hands, his anger still palpable in the set of his shoulders, the tight grip of his hands on the handlebars. He's furious with me, I know. For running. For putting myself in danger. For almost getting taken by his enemies.

But he came for me. Found me. Saved me.

And as the compound comes into view, as we pass through the gate I so recently escaped under, I realize a terrible, wonderful truth: I'm not running from Clark anymore.

I'm running to him.

eight

Clark

I kickthe door to my room open, Emilia still cradled against my chest. My hands are steady, my movements controlled, but inside I'm nuclear—rage and terror and relief forming a volatile cocktail that threatens to detonate with every breath. I almost lost her. The thought pounds through me with each heartbeat. She almost got taken by the fucking Vipers. Every time I close my eyes, I see her surrounded, that bastard's hand on her throat, the fear in her eyes. I should have locked her in. Should have handcuffed her to the goddamn bed if that's what it took to keep her safe. I set her down on her feet, more carefully than I feel, and then I'm pacing, unable to look at her directly because if I do, I might shake her. Or kiss her. Or both.

"Clark," she says softly, hesitantly. Her voice trembles, but there's a strength beneath it that only feeds the storm inside me. Even now, even after what just happened, she's not broken.

"Don't." The word comes out harsher than I intend, slicing through the air between us. "Don't say anything yet."

I need to get myself under control. Need to rein in the feral part of me that wants to drag her back to bed, pin her beneath me, mark her so thoroughly that she'll never think of leaving again. The violence still sings in my blood from the fight, heightening everything, making it harder to think clearly.

"I told you to stay here." I finally turn to face her, hands clenched at my sides. "I fucking told you there was danger. That the Vipers were watching us."

She hugs herself, those slim arms wrapping around her body protectively. Her cardigan is torn at the shoulder, dirt streaking one sleeve from where she crawled under the fence. There's a redness on her neck that will bruise by morning—where that bastard grabbed her. The sight of it sends fresh rage through me.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Sorry?" I laugh, the sound bitter even to my own ears. "You're sorry? Do you have any idea what they would have done to you? What they still might do if they get their hands on you again?"

She flinches, and something in me breaks at the sight. I close my eyes, drawing a deep breath, forcing the fury back down. This isn't her fault. She's a captive trying to escape. What did I expect?

"Why?" I ask, voice lower now, controlled. "Why run, Emilia? After everything?"

Her eyes meet mine, direct and clear despite her fear. "I have responsibilities. My mother, my sister. My job. My life." She pauses, swallowing hard. "And I needed...space. From this. From you. From how you make me feel."

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