Page 45 of Taking Denver

I laugh through my tears, though my heart is torn to pieces, as delicate as shredded butterfly wings. “The feeling is mutual.”

He crouches and ruffles Wesson’s ears. “Be a good boy, okay?” Wesson wiggles excitedly, and Ethan stands and kisses me one final time. “Bye.”

“Bye.” I turn. Every step leads me deeper into darkness, into a life that promises only blood and bullets, into the arms of a man who might sooner kill me than lose me.

The sounds of the airport are muffled as I follow the suited man. I don’t look back at Ethan; I can’t because I’d run back into his arms. Palming away tears, the echo of rushed footsteps and conversation become open air as I cross the hangar to the jet.

“Good morning, Ms. Luxe.” The air hostess smiles warmly. “Can I take your jacket?”

I thank her, shake my head and turn to head for one of the many empty cream-leather seats. Wesson dances excitedly inside and hops onto the sofa, but I freeze when I see Ranger.

His frame is massive, even in the empty space of the private jet. His suit is pressed to perfection, not a speck of dust or lint to mar the dark fabric that clings to his muscular body. Leg crossed, elbow against the armrest, his face remains void of expression as I find the strength to move again.

“Good morning, little bird,” he says, nodding at the seat beside him. An iPad is resting on his thigh. “Ready to go home?”

I shrug off the impact of his presence and the smell of expensive cologne as I sit. “Not particularly.”

He holds out his hand. “Wallet.”

“But where will I keep my ‘I Hate Ranger’ membership card?” I ask with mock concern, before slapping my wallet into his hand.

“Maybe there’s an app for it,” he says, opening my wallet. “Credit card, Denver.”

I sigh. I’d slipped my card into my pocket on the walk to the hangar, hoping to hold onto one small piece of freedom. I hand it to him.

“Anything else? I probably don’t need both kidneys,” I say.

“Seatbelt.”

“I’d rather leave it off and hope for severe turbulence.”

He leans over and clips my seatbelt closed, and I press myself back into the seat.

“Death won’t save you from me, little bird,” he says. I look out the small window, my chest tight. Ranger refocuses on his iPad. “Did you get rid of your plaything?”

“Nothing to get rid of,” I say. “It was barely anything.”

“You spent every day with him, Denver.”

I stare at him. “Do you know positions, too?”

“Something tells me he’s mainly a missionary man,” he says, not moving his eyes from the screen.

“He’s more of a man than you are.”

Ranger closes the iPad cover with a snap. He slowly drums his fingers against his leg, each finger dropping in rhythm, and says nothing. My heart races and my throat is painfully dry as I watch him.

“Say that to me again,” he says.

He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t have to. His words are enough to pin me in place.

I say nothing.

“I recommend not using him as a weapon from this point onward, little bird,” he says. “I won’t hurt you. But I will hurt him.”

My shoulders tense. “Or you could just let me be happy.”

He laughs, the sound a rumble in his chest. “You can go to him if you like. I’ve never restrained you in my house. If you want Ethan, then go right ahead.” He locks eyes with me. “I’ll just kill him.”

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