Page 19 of Vow to Protect
“Drink it.” He passes me the glass bottle and nods. His brows tug together when he asks, “Why did he cut an x into you? What are you to him?”
My hand trembles. “My sister had the same one. It’s what he does. He marks the spot where the final stab will go.”
“It’s new to me. And I know everything that fucker does. Now drink up.”
“Can you tell me what this is? Please?” I plead.
Law strolls to the exit. “It’s your fucking ticket out of here. Either you drink it now, or I’ll smack my gun off the side of your skull instead.” He opens his jacket wide, revealing a sheathed revolver snug to his form. “Three.” He reaches for the weapon. I pop off the lid. “Two.” His fingers curl around the black metal. I tip the bottle to my lips. “One.” On his last word, I tilt my head and let the bitter liquid coat my tongue and trickle down my throat. “Lie down, Raen, before you fall down.”
I stagger back. Shocked and desperate. “What was it?” The pitch of my voice turns shrill and panicked. “Please. Tell me. What did I just do?”
Law closes the door, shutting out the light, leaving me alone. My shoulders judder down the wall, and I collapse to my side, letting the events of the day wash over me. How was that putrid liquid my ticket out of hell?
Wave after wave, I slip into my mind, drifting away.
Hazy glimpses.
Torchlight.
Deafening blasts like bullets hitting tin.
Slamming.
Yelling.
Banging.
Explosions or fireworks.
Voices. “Who is she? He’s branded her?”
Black to blue.
Warm greets cold.
Silhouettes shimmer.
Weightlessness.
My lashes flutter once,then twice, then rapidly, adjusting to sunlight dappling cotton sheets. I roll onto my side and exhale. Everything is bright and fresh and clean.
Gunfire.
Shouting.
A faint smile fringed with whiskers.
I jolt, sitting upright and steadying myself with open palms. This isn’t the room I was originally locked away in. My heartbeat races, competing with persistent wild thumps of dehydration. “Blaine?” My croaky voice raises ever so slightly, squinting in the daylight. I scrunch the sheets, flipping them off to check my body, then pivot to face the man staring back at me from across the room.
Brett De Courcy.
He’s sitting in a low armchair, ankle flipped up and resting on his opposite knee. Grazed knuckles twitch and a chunky ring wraps his index finger. In contrast to his wounds, a black v neck top leads to smooth honeyed skin and a fine golden chain. He wears matching onyx jeans. Above dark eyes, thick brows are raised, and a cut dents his forehead like he’s fresh out of battle. Brett studies me in an unsettling silence. With purpose, his forefinger slowly traces his lower lip. The quiet observation somehow provokes me with a risky desire.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” I suddenly feel exposed. “Have you been watching me this whole time?” I glance at marl track pants and remember the very instant I put them on. “Where am I? How did I get here?”
Thick black hair on top of his head has a just washed dampness, combed back in a sweep and cut neatly to his scalp at the sides. Rough inky stubble covers a clenched jaw. He’s like a war god straight out of combat with a look in his eyes that quietly suggests compassion and concern.
“You’re safe now. As promised.”
