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It rattles me enough that my despair turns to annoyance.
“Want to take a picture?” I snap as he continues to belittle me with his unflinching stare.
His jaw twitches. “Careful.”
Jesus.
If his voice could not be so fucking sexy, that would be great.
He continues to assess me without words, and it’s as unsettling to receive his full attention as it is to listen to him talk. And that uncomfortable feeling makes me lash out when I normally might be a bit more subdued. I’m quite good under pressure. I have to be. But this is a type of pressure I never could have trained for.
My question remains unanswered. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I think I deserve a fucking explanation.”
He leans forward. I lean back. But there’s nowhere for me to go when I’m already pressed against the plane seat. Bolt bends over me, bringing his mouth so he can caress my ear as he says, “Move, Ms Lewis. We don’t have all day.”
My body betrays me by shivering.
I’m ashamed to admit that, back in the clinic, I thought he had a bit more charm. A dark sort of charisma that was enticing before he decided to kill someone in front of me. Now, he’s just being rude.
I do as he asks, shuffling around his imposing frame. As I put one foot in front of the other, I can’t help but mutter. “Fucking prick.”
Large fingers grip onto my bicep and yank me around. I yelp, stumbling forward a step. My kidnapper’s face is so close to mine, I can’t take my next gulp of air. “Swear all you want. You’re not getting any answers.”
“Odin.” Over his shoulder, I see laptop guy has risen out of his seat, his expression firm. “Let her go to the bathroom.”
Despite my rapidly beating heart, I can’t keep my mouth closed. “The one-eyed god, huh? Did you come up with that?”
Odin’s grip on my arm tightens just a fraction. “It’s a warning.”
“Sure.” I swallow a scoff.
His hard body brushes against mine as he grunts. “I’d adhere to it if I were you.”
“Or what?”
His lips twitch as I stare into his gaze. A slate mountain capped with ice stares back. A force of nature with no emotion. But in the depths, deep where no one would dare linger, I think I see a spark of color. Of rage. I’m pretty skilled at reading eyes. My mother taught me how to do it better than my professors. Words aren’t a solid language between myself and my patients. I have to be able to read them, their fears, their joys, their pains. I have to know what they are experiencing without ever hearing it come from their own mouths. Homing in on that talent is second nature the longer I’m held against this dangerous stranger.
“Go on,” he taunts, tilting his chin in the direction of the bathroom and lets me go.
I back away, spinning at the last second and practically race toward the safety of the bathroom. Once inside, I triple check the lock is in place and collapse onto the toilet.
Instantly, I’m bawling. Tears are coming hot and fast down my cheeks, clogging up my throat and pressing on my chest.
The last few hours have been so fucked up, I still can’t process it all.
I’ve been kidnapped. They somehow know I’ve been selling drugs to a gang that I’ve never been in contact with. And I’m fucking terrified I’m going to die.
He killed my father.
It’s still not settling. The bomb that was dropped at my feet. In my mind, it hasn’t gone off yet. The shrapnel is safely contained and waiting.
My father died before I was born. Or so I was told. My mother rarely mentioned him, if at all. Only showed me one of two photos sheowned—so blurry and yellow it was impossible to make out the details. It wasn’t enough to build any sort of relationship, so I never gave him much thought, especially when she remarried and my stepfather moved in with us. Why would she lie to me about something like that? Whatisthere to hide?
I don’t understand it at all.
But I can seesomethings through the haze of my hysteria. For one; his startling eyes and their uncanny resemblance to my own. His dark eyebrows indicated he might have had hair like me when he was in his prime.
My mother’s face was round and peachy, where mine is angular and pale. Her hair was a rich chocolate brown, the strands thin and easily affected by the heat, where mine is black as a raven’s. It always frustrated me how different we looked as mother and daughter. Maybe whenever my mother flinched, it wasn’t because it hurt her to think of my father… It was because sheliedto me about him.
