Page 34 of Fighting for Scarlett

How long could she hold out if it was administered again?

What if they kept giving it to her in a never-ending loop, not giving her time to recover in between?

Scarlett knew the answer to that question.

She would break, give over the formula, anything to get relief from the clawing need that had possessed her body.

When the hand around her neck tightened, cutting off her air supply, every cell in her body screamed at her to fight. It was what the man thought she would do, what he wanted her to do if the amusement in his eyes was anything to go by.

But fighting wouldn’t help.

He was bigger and stronger, she wouldn’t get away by fighting the hand at her neck.

Fighting against her instincts, Scarlett didn't claw at the man’s hand. Instead, she focused every bit of her fading energy and rammed her knee up and into the man’s groin.

Doing the unexpected worked to her advantage, and suddenly the pressure on her neck was gone as the man doubled over. She’d gotten in a direct hit, and when her would-be strangler staggered sideways, he bumped into the other man, buying her enough time to fumble with the lock and throw the front door open.

Terrified there might be more of Raul’s men out there somewhere, she fought against her natural instinct, which was to run, and instead crept out into her front yard, scanning the street as she went.

Unfortunately, she didn't even make it to the sidewalk before a huge body connected with hers and she was slammed onto the hard, cold ground, and pinned in place.

January 15th

2:47 A.M.

As soon as he saw Scarlett come creeping out of her house Tate knew something was wrong.

The benefit of the doubt he’d been willing to give her was gone.

She was trying to run.

Only guilty people ran.

Shoving open the car door, he ran toward her before she got away. Reaching her before she even got off her front lawn, Tate tackled her, taking them both to the ground.

Predictably she fought him, thrashing about with more strength than her small frame should have had. Still, she was a tiny thing compared to his six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound frame, and he easily pinned her in place.

“I don’t think so, little traitor,” he murmured as he straddled her thighs, keeping her legs pinned, while with one hand he held both her wrists and pinned them to the ground above her head.

Stretched out as she was beneath him, he absolutely should not be thinking about how good she’d look just like this only in his bed.

Sex with a traitor was not on his radar.

Yet almost without realizing it, his thumb brushed across the inside of Scarlett’s wrist as though they were lovers.

Beneath him, she’d gone still, and the sound of her ragged breathing drew his gaze to her heaving chest. She was wearing black leggings that clung to her toned legs and an oversized sweater instead of pajamas, further fueling his belief that she was going to run.

In the thin moonlight her dark eyes looked like two bottomless pits of pain, but he fought against their pull. He wasn’t getting sucked in again. Already he had been willing to consider the possibility that she had been framed, that she was innocent. He’d wanted proof one way or the other and now he had it.

The only reason to run was if you were guilty.

Only …

She didn't have a bag and her feet were bare.

If she was planning on disappearing, she’d be more prepared.

Indecision warred inside him. Was he only painting her with a guilty brush because of the mess he had inadvertently caused with his father? Was he the one with the problem here? Doubting Scarlett because it was actually himself that he didn't trust?

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