Page 45 of Sinners Atone
He jerks his chin to the left. I follow it to a lone black car parked on the verge, half illuminated by a streetlamp.
“Get in the car,” he repeats, with ice-cold restraint.
I roll my shoulders back and meet his eye with restraint of my own. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t need a ride. I’m more than happy to walk home.”
Irritation tightens his gaze. “You get in the front or you go in the trunk.”
Holy crap.
Ice threads through my veins. I know little about this man, but I know his threats are never empty. Without waiting for a response, he doubles down by sliding his fist into his pocket. A quiet beep sounds, followed by a double blink of headlights. The hood of the trunk rises open with a chilling hiss.
My heart pounds in my chest, a cocktail of frustration and indignation stretching it tight. I don’t know how I’m getting out of this mess, but I sure as hell know it won’t be on four wheels.
I glance over my shoulder toward my house, scrambling for a plan. Despite my yearly fun runs for charity, I don’t have the speed nor stamina to make a break for it. I wouldn’t be able to outrun him based on the width of his stride alone, even if I had my sneakers on.
And any attempt to fight him off would be laughable. A man half his size just dragged me around like a rag doll—Gabriel would rip me open like one, and the only thing left of me would be buttons and stuffing.
Well, then. I suppose I’ll try a good old-fashioned refusal.
“No.”
It sounded stronger in my head but came out a pathetic whisper, wobbly and without weight. I consider clearing my throat and trying again, but then he steps toward me.
“I’ll scream.”
His eyes flash black. “Good.”
He’s closing in on my clumsy retreat. A few more steps and he’s within touching distance—grabbing distance, judging by the angry blaze in his eyes—so I do the only thing I can think of.
With my mother’s words echoing in my ears, I drop to the ground.
Damp seeps through the back of my thighs. Pebbles dig between my shoulder blades. I try not to think of the damage I’ve done to this cute dress, and squeeze my eyes shut, forcing every muscle in my body to relax.
His footsteps stop for less than a heartbeat. Then they start up again, as lazy and heavy as they were when following me down my hallway. It seems he’s never in a hurry to eat his prey.
When the tip of his shoes graze my hip and his shadow darkens the inside of my eyelids, I stop breathing.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he growls.
“Playing dead,” I whisper.
Christ. Why did I tell him that? It was an instinct, a flinch to the sharp edge of his question, rooted in fear that silence or a lie would only anger him more.
Dead bodies are heavier. They’re limp and floppy and are much harder to move than a living being. Flattening myself against the asphalt felt like a great idea ten seconds ago, but nowthat I’m sinking into the dirt and growing colder by the second, I can’t help but feel foolish.
My gaze snags on his fist as it clenches and flexes. “Don’t make me do this,” he murmurs.
“Do what?”
With a rough grip on my thigh, and another on my hip, I’m levitating. He slings me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and when I open my eyes, I’m staring down the length of his back.
Great. Now what? Politely declining and playing dead didn’t work. I guess I’ll have to give the whole fighting thing a go.
I kick my legs against his chest; he pins them in place with his forearm. I beat my fists on his back; he doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps his leisurely pace as he strides toward the car, as though he fireman carries unwilling participants around every day of the week.
God, forgive me—it’s not ladylike to bite, but given the circumstances, I’m sure he’ll give me a hall pass. I twist my head in an attempt to sink my teeth into his neck, but my gaze snags on the open car trunk, and my jaw grows slack.
Is that?
