Page 6 of Rescuing Rebel

She faces me now, eyes sharp. “I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”

I hold up conciliatory hands. “Meant no offense. You can talk to one of our counselors if you need to. You don’t have to go through this alone.” I take a step back, giving her room.

Her lip curls derisively. “I’m not interested in counseling or spilling my guts. I’m not traumatized; I’m pissed off. I just want my life back.”

Her aquamarine eyes flash with warning as she brushes past me, spine straight, chin high. I resist the urge to touch her, to provide false comfort.

I watch her go, equal parts fascinated and curious. She burns bright, an enigma I long to understand, but her healing must unfold at her pace, not mine.

For now, I’ll keep my distance and give her the space she needs to heal in her own way.

THREE

Rebel

We beginour descent hours after boarding the plane. My fingers grip the armrests, and my jaw clenches. While happy to be out of that hellhole—thingsdid notgo as I intended—this whole rescue means starting over from scratch.

I’m such a fucking idiot!

Too confident. Too desperate. My perfect plan resulted in perfect chaos. Next time, I’ll do things differently.

I ignore the huddled women around me and confine my conversation to a woman named Barbi, asking her everything and anything I can about this organization: the Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists.

They sound like gallant heroes, and they saved Barbi and her beau, Alec, but these arrogant Guardians ripped me away too soon. Years of sacrifice and careful planning are wasted. Now, I’m forced to begin again.

From scratch.

The plane’s tires screech as we land, jolting me backward against the seat. My lips press tightly while I ignore the women whispering around me. I refuse to take comfort in the blanket they draped over me like some trembling victim.

The things I’ve endured would break these sheltered do-gooders, and while I’m thankful the stench of shit and piss from the cells is gone, I’ve lost much with this unwantedrescue.

Speaking of piss and shit, I’m not too cynical that I don’t appreciate the delicate aroma of the floral-scented shampoo and being freshly clean. I keep catching myself twirling my fingers in my hair and lifting the loose curls to my nose.

Lavender. It’s my favorite scent.

I’d rather sniff my hair than breathe in the stench of testosterone from these modern-day heroes whorescuedme. Theirmalenessis a thousand times more potent than the lavender citrus from the shampoo. I take another sniff of my hair and close my eyes.

Violet prefers Jasmine.

Preferred.

Not prefers.

Violet’s gone.

Nervous energy hangs thick in the cabin air. Unlike the others, I refuse to huddle under the blanket they gave me like some pitiful victim. I survived hell once already, and I’ll claw my way back no matter how long it takes.

That may not make sense, but if you know, you know.

Only one Guardian gives me pause—the man who ripped open my cage and freed me from mymisadventure. He introduced himself to Barbi’s man as Ethan Blackwood. It’s a conversation I eavesdropped on, among many others, eager to obtain any information about the operation that ruined my hard work and years of delicate planning.

Although my plan—such as it was—completely fell apart.

His steel-blue gaze holds more intelligence and perception than I like, and when he turns that attention to me, I respond to that potent force. The dark unruliness of his hair does nothing to detract from his overwhelming presence. It onlyintensifiesit.

Dark hair.

Blue eyes.

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