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Bar is closed until five. Breakfast is downstairs if you’re hungry.

-Mav

Mav. Seeing his name signed at the bottom and his handwriting makes that fear dissipate, so I check the clock. Just past nine in the morning.

Breakfast.

Thinking about it makes my stomach growl, but can I really take more from this man than I already have? He gave me a place to sleep, a shower, his clothes, not to mention the pizza last night.

Is it really fair to keep taking?

Even though my manners say no, the hunger in my gut is too strong to ignore. After setting the notebook paper on top of the counter, I head over toward the bathroom to grab my clothes.

Which, unfortunately, are still soaking wet. Fantastic.

The shirt, I could deal with. But the jeans? Those will be miserable. I turn toward the mirror and study my reflection. My dark hair is a tangled mess, and the bruising has started turning a nasty yellow that is more visible today with the dirt washed from my face.

Thankfully, his clothes aren’t too revealing, though they certainly aren’t doing me any favors. Then again, I’m not trying to look any certain way.

So, I tuck the bottom part of his shirt into the waistband of the pants, tie them tighter, then roll up the bottoms so I don’t trip, and slip my tennis shoes on. Unfortunately, with no socks since those are also still a wet mess.

Dressed as well as I can be, I move over toward my backpack and shoulder it just in case, then grab the key and remove the chair I’d propped up.

Wait.

My stomach twists into nervous knots, and my heart begins to pound.

What if this was all to make me feel safe? What if that was his plan?

But what if it wasn’t? What if...Maverick is a decent guy who just wants to help?

Unsure which voice I should listen to, I head into the kitchen and start rummaging through drawers until I find one with a few mismatched steak knives.

I grab one, feeling the weight of it in my palm.

Do I really have what it takes to use it?

Yes. Because I’d rather die than go back into that cellar.

Never again.

I slide the steak knife, blade down, into the pocket of the sweats, then push the chair back toward the table. After that, I pull open the door and peer out into the hallway.

Maverick’s door is closed, the hall empty.

I can do this.

After closing the door behind me, I lock up, then start down the stairs in the same direction he brought me last night. As I reach the door at the bottom, though, doubt hits me like a freight train all over again. Why is he doing this? Was last night just to give me a false sense of security? Is he going to attack me the moment I step into that bar?

I pull my hand back, but hunger has me moving forward again, and I slip my hand into the pocket where I stashed the knife. If I have to, I will fight. Even if I don’t survive, no one will ever do to me what happened back in that cellar.

Lord, please don’t let this be a mistake.

Before I can convince myself otherwise, I push the door open and step out into the hallway. The moment I do, the scent of fresh coffee and something savory hits my lungs. My stomach burns with hunger, my mouth already watering.

Stepping out onto the gleaming hardwood floor, I head down the hall and emerge into the main part of the bar. Now that I’m not exhausted, I can see the craftsmanship that went into designing this place.

From the elegant shelving hung on the walls, boasting various trinkets and old beer steins, to the small dance floor near a stage. The tables even look handmade, as do the chairs. And when I turn toward the gleaming bar, I take note of the intricate swirling designs carved into the edge of it.