Page 56 of Sinful

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"Then you understand why I have to do this."

"I understand why you think you have to. Doesn't mean you're right."

"Bravos—"

"Stay." The word is rough. Almost pleading. "Wait for the intel. Come on the actual mission if you have to. But don't throw your life away on a plan that won't work."

For a second—just a second—I almost listen.

Because the way he's looking at me feels like someone actually gives a shit if I live or die.

But then I remember the box. The hand. My mother's screams.

"I can't," I whisper. "I'm sorry."

I move before he can stop me—grab my go-bag from the closet, the one I've kept packed for three years in case I needed to run. Shove in extra cash, my fake IDs, the .380 from under my pillow.

"Helle, don't?—"

"Tell Elfe I love her." I head for the door. "Tell my mom I'm sorry."

"Goddammit—"

But I'm already running.

Down the stairs, through the chaos, out the back door where my Kawasaki sits waiting.

I hear him behind me, boots pounding, voice shouting my name.

But I'm faster.

Always have been.

I throw my leg over the bike, jam the key in, engine roaring to life.

Bravos bursts through the door, running toward me.

Our eyes meet.

His are pleading. Furious. Desperate.

Mine are already dead.

"I'm sorry," I mouth.

Then I twist the throttle and disappear into the night.

The Kawasaki screams beneath me as I hit the main road.

Behind me, I hear another engine—Bravos on his Harley, trying to follow.

But this is what I do.

I race.

And nobody—not even a Nomad from Texas with scarred knuckles and eyes that see too much—can catch me when I don't want to be caught.

I know these roads.

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