Page 95 of Stolen Rebel

“Yours. Always yours.”

I slide out of her, turning her in my arms. Cupping her face, I lower down to kiss her. “You’re a dangerous woman.”

“How so?”

“Because I can’t control myself around you.”

“That sounds like a you problem.” She giggles, and I fall deeper in love with her.

I swaddle her in a towel and wrap one around my waist. “Sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”

“Another apology?” She tilts her head, her lips still smile shaped, and holds the back of her hand to my forehead like she’s checking for illness or a temperature. “I’m beginning to worry about you.”

“Only for you. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“The tough guy who crumbles for his woman.” She presses a hand to her chest. “I’m swooning hard here.”

“Our secret.” I kiss her hard on the lips.

“Where were you?”

“I went to see Patrick. We’ve decided to move on Murray.”

The smile falls from her face, and I hate it. I hate that even the mention of his name gives her anxiety.

“I see. When?”

“As soon as we can set it up. But I need you to help me with that.”

“Me? How?”

“I want you to text him. Tell him that I snatched you and brought you back to Ireland, but that you’ve managed to escape, and you need him to come get you. I’ll give you an address to give him. When he shows, I’ll be there waiting.”

“What if he doesn’t come?”

I laugh. “He will. He’ll want you back under his control. He’s spent five years lying to you, hiding you from me. It’ll drive him crazy to know I had you back, if only for a moment. He’ll want to get you away from here before I find you again.”

“Okay.” Her voice is subdued, and another torrent of hatred for that man rises within me. I don’t just want answers. I want him gone. For good. Wiped off the face of the earth.

She towels off and dresses in silence, tying her hair back without drying it. Phone in hand, she turns to me. “What should I say?”

I think about it for a minute. It needs to hit the right note of compelling him to act without him asking too many questions. “Start it with ‘I’m in trouble. I need your help.’”

Her fingers fly over the keyboard. She bites her lip, staring at the screen. “He’s seen it.” Then, “He’s replying.” A flash of anger crosses her face. “It says ‘What have you done now?’”

I grind my molars. Of course it’s Rowan’s fault. It would be the woman’s fault. I am racking up grievances against this bastard, and when I let them loose, he’ll beg me to end it. To end him. I’m battling with the temptation to take the phone from her and tell that fucker he’s on borrowed time, but Patrick’s right. I need to follow the plan.

“Start with an apology. Men like him love to assign blame and make the woman think she has something to apologize for. Then tell him I snatched you off the street in London and brought you here.”

“How long ago should I say?”

“When were you last in contact with him?”

She scrolls back through the messages. “Tuesday. I texted him to tell him I was sick, but he made me call. When you knocked on my bathroom door, I hung up on him.”

Six days ago.

She hung up on him six days ago, and he hasn’t been in touch since. That sets my teeth on edge. Why would he leave it so long?