Page 23 of His Prize

“What did you ask?” I glowered.

She coughed. “Let’s stop beating around the bush, Israel because I’m sick and tired of it.”

“Watch your next words.”

She snickered. “Let go of my neck.”

“Or what?”

I felt something cold press against my side. “Or, poor Miss Bonnie will live the rest of her days alone.”

I loosened my grip. “What do you want from me?”

She cocked her gun. “I have enough money at my disposal to help you buy half this damn city, Israel. And between the two of us, we have enough influence to own the whole of it. We could be unstoppable. We could have enough power to do as we wished whenever we wished without anyone stopping us. You know damn good and well my family owns the police force around here. Everyone bows to us the second we walk into a station, and no one in our family has ever had to be in one because of it. You could have all of that if you give up Bonnie.”

At any other time in my life, I would’ve accepted her offer outright. We would’ve started the negotiation process, kept up appearances, and I would’ve become—overnight—the most powerful man in Chicago. But, times had changed. Bonnie had changed me for the better, and only one thought fell from my lips.

“You’d never make a happy home, though. And I’m not willing to be miserable behind closed doors for power once I walk out of them.”

Alice scoffed. “Then, maybe you’re not the Israel everyone knows.”

My hand slid away from her throat. “Just like you were never the Alice I loved.”

8

Bonnie

“I can do this. Come on,”I murmured.

I drew in a deep breath before I jammed the sharp knife into the whole chicken. I wanted to have a decent meal tonight that didn’t consist of childish sandwiches and finger snacks. I wanted marinated chicken, roasted to perfection in the oven. I wanted apple cider root vegetables and whipped mashed potatoes. I wanted to make Israel and myself a decadent cobbler with freshly whipped sweet cream to dollop over it.

But first, I had to get my knife to cooperate.

“Come. On!”

I pressed down on the knife and felt a pain charge through my finger. I pulled my hand back, surveying the bloodied mess that dripped from the side of my left pointer finger. I wrapped my other hand around it and hobbled over to the sink. But, not before I dripped blood all down the front of my apron.

And when I started running my finger under warm water, I heard something crash to the floor before I saw the chicken on the tile with a knife protruding from its chest.

“Israel!” I turned the water up to hot and reached for the soap. “Israel, can you come into the kitchen for a second?”

I looked up to the top of the refrigerator and sighed. If Israel couldn’t hear me, then I’d simply do it myself. I shuffled away from the sink and reached up toward the top of the fridge, where I knew we kept the first-aid kit. I felt blood trickling into the palm of my hand as I cradled it against my chest. I stood on my tiptoes, ignoring the pain wafting up my back as I reached for that clear red box.

“Come on, just a little more,” I murmured.

I felt my leg lock up, and I cried out in pain. I bent down quickly to rub at the back of my bruised calf, but my head cracked itself against the edge of the refrigerator. Tears sprung to my eyes as I held my forehead, smearing blood all over my face. And as I stumbled back, unable to stand on that one leg, the small of my back fell against the kitchen island.

Putting me in a blinding pain that sank me to my ass.

“Israel, please!” I roared.

Tears streaked my face as my hand fell to the ground. I stared at the oven as it radiated heat out toward me. I closed my eyes and tried to gather myself. I tried to stuff the pain down so I could practice putting on a tough face.

You have to get through this. You have to push forward. This won’t be the only time you’re attacked.

“Israel!” I shrieked.

As I sat there on the kitchen floor, I refused to let myself cry. I either had to sit there until Israel got home, or I had to find a way to pick myself up. I wasn’t an invalid. If I wanted my freedom back, I had to prove that I could conduct my freedom in a manner that didn’t put my life in danger.

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