Page 75 of Imprisoned

“There.” Willow’s beam illuminates a rusted ladder leading up to a metal hatch. “I parked the car in the woods, half a mile east.”

I grab her arm before she climbs. “You sure about this? Last chance to back out.”

She answers by kissing me hard, her tongue tasting of coffee and desperation. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The voices hum in approval. She’s made her choice. She’s mine now, forever marked by darkness.

33

WILLOW

The forest floor crunches beneath our feet as we hurry away from the prison. Prison sirens pierce the night air, making my heart race faster. I lead the way, my phone’s GPS guiding us toward the getaway car I’d hidden earlier.

“This way,” I instruct, ducking under a low-hanging branch. Tommy and Rico follow close behind, with Axel bringing up the rear.

My thoughts drift to Mom, who is now safely in Brazil. The guilt of my deception twists in my stomach because she thinks she’s just going on a lovely vacation and has no idea her daughter is about to become an international fugitive.

A twig snaps, and I jump. Axel’s hand finds my shoulder, steadying me. His touch sends electricity through my body but also raises the questions I’ve been trying to suppress.

Everything I learned in my training screams at me. Psychopaths don’t form real attachments. They manipulate and use people for their own ends and then discard them. I’ve read countless case studies and written papers on it. The clinical part of my brain catalogs all the signs he exhibits—his charm, hisability to read and exploit my weaknesses, the way he slowly drew me in...

But when his fingers squeeze my shoulder gently when I catch his eyes and see that spark of genuine connection—my heart rebels against everything I know professionally. It feels real—more real than anything I’ve ever experienced.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

I nod, pushing down my doubts. We have to keep moving. The car is still a little walk ahead, and the sirens are getting louder. I check the GPS again, orienting us toward where I left the car.

But the question echoes in my mind with every step: Am I just another victim in Axel Morrison’s game?

Rico’s eyes linger on me a moment too long, a calculating gleam that makes my skin crawl. Axel strides ahead, focused on our escape route, missing the exchange entirely.

My stomach churns. These two extra bodies weren’t part of our careful planning. Tommy and Rico were part of Axel’s prison crew. Sure, they helped orchestrate our escape, but bringing them along changed everything. Our dream of a quiet life in Brazil, just the two of us and my mom starting fresh feels like it’s slipping away.

I catch Rico studying me again, his expression unreadable.

Does he know about the money? About the plans I’ve made?

The fake passports and documents I’ve arranged to be delivered to the safe house with my contact tomorrow morning are only for Axel and me. The beach house I purchased under an alias isn’t for them—it’s for us.

“Keep moving,” Axel commands from up ahead.

I hurry to catch up, my mind racing. Why didn’t Axel discuss this with me? We planned everything else together, down to the smallest detail. These additions feel wrong and dangerous. Prison loyalty is one thing, but this is our future at stake.

My fingers brush against the burner phone in my pocket, checking it’s still there. Our contact expects two people, not four. Everything I’ve arranged—the offshore accounts, our new identities—is calibrated for a couple, not a crew.

I spot the outline of the SUV I’d hidden earlier and grab Axel’s arm, pulling him behind a large oak tree while Rico and Tommy continue.

“We need to talk.” I keep my voice low. “This wasn’t the plan. Two extra people change everything. The arrangements I made?—”

Axel cups my face, his touch instantly calming my racing thoughts. “Listen to me, doctor. Nothing’s changed. Rico and Tommy are just getting us over the border. After that, they’re on their own.”

“But—”

“They helped us escape. I owe them that much. You’re the only one I’m starting a new life with.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “Everything you arranged—the house, the accounts—that’s still just for us and your mom. They know nothing about it.”

I search his eyes for any sign of deception, any hint that I’m being played. All I see is that intense focus, that raw connection that makes me question everything I learned about psychopaths being incapable of real attachment.

“You promise?”

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