He’s looming over me again. “You’re only making this harder on yourself. We’re going to find them, and then what use will you be? Tell me now, and I’ll show mercy.”
There is one sweet thing about this torture—while this happens, I know they haven’t found Clara yet. She’s safe as long as I’m in pain. I want it to go on forever.
“Clara,” I say, voice like rusted metal.
“Yes,” he says, soothing. “This is her fault. She doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”
She deserves more than I could ever give her. “You’ll never touch her again.”
His fist hits my stomach just as the cloth lands on my face again. Seven.
And so it goes on, more questions. More fighting. Sometimes I think he knows I don’t know where they are, that he just likes fucking with me because I got in his way. Other times I think he must be really desperate. I know he wanted Clara. I saw the way he looked at her, the way he touched her in the garden while she told him no. Thank God I was there to intervene, even if it did lead to this.
Six. Five. Four.
But it’s more than that. He’s friends with Honor’s fiancé, who would have gotten power out of the alliance. I have no idea what Javier wanted to get out of the deal. He’s already the governor’s son, already rich and powerful. For men like him, it’s never enough. Run, Clara. Never stop running.
Black spots dance in front of my eyes. I’m blacking out, muscles too locked up to do anything but clench. Javier is talking to me again, but my oxygen-deprived brain can’t make out the words.
Three.
Instead I see Clara’s face—wavery, as if I’m watching her from underwater. She’s smiling at me.
This is all she ever wanted, to be free.
Two.
“You’re going to fucking die in this room,” he hisses into my ear. “You’re going to rot in this basement until only your bones are left. And when I find your pretty little girlfriend, I’m going to fuck her until she bleeds.”
Somehow my body finds the strength to fight again, and I lunge against the restraints, slamming my head into Javier’s. A sickening crack fills the air. Then a fist lands on my temple and everything becomes muted. In slow motion I see the washcloth coming down toward my face. I’m still too dazed from the punch to suck in a breath, my body spasming and out of control. Clara. Clara. Clara. Her name a wild beat in my ears, a thousand feet pounding the pavement.
One.
Chapter One
Present Day
I see him everywhere. He is the memory of a dream when I wake up. He’s the man at the street corner, gone the moment I blink. He’s my last regret as I go to bed. The boy I left behind. The boy who died for me. Some days it feels like I’m living a normal life—the one he wanted me to have, free from my mafia family, going to art school like I always dreamed. Other days I feel like a ghost, like I died back in that gunfight with him, never really free.
“Earth to Clara.”
I blink, coming back to myself. My friend Amy waves her hand in front of me, an exasperated look on her face. The windows are already dark, the light in the studio reduced to shadows. When did that happen?
A twinge of pain courses through my hand, and I look down. My fingers are stained with black. Charcoal. I don’t remember drawing, but the result of it is splayed across the page.
I move to cover it, but I’m not quick enough.
“Again?” Amy sighs. “Let me see.”
Reluctant, I push the paper across the smooth table as if it means nothing. And really, it doesn’t. I have a hundred of those stacked up at home.
Amy studies the harsh lines and shading. “Your composition is perfect,” she says a little wistfully. “Even when you aren’t trying. I might hate you.”
That makes me smile. “It’s a sketch. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Mhmm, and what about the hundred other times you’ve drawn him?”
“Those didn’t mean anything either.”
She laughs softly, because she’s seen his face drawn in charcoal, scribbled on napkins, and traced in watercolor. He’s never what I set out to draw, but he’s always where I end up.
I crumple the paper into a tight ball and toss it into the trash can. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Like your big debut?”
“Like that.” My gaze sweeps over the big empty place in the corner where I spent the last three months sculpting. It was my first commission and my largest piece. It turned out more beautifully than I’d envisioned, and it’s now installed on the fountain where it will stand, awaiting its official unveiling tomorrow night. I should feel proud. I should feel accomplished.
Instead a sense of dread has taken root in my chest, soaking up all the happiness, spreading through my limbs. I should be focused on my dreams or, at the very least, enjoying life as a college student. We aren’t on the run anymore, but in my darkest hours I can’t shake the feeling that we should be.
A hand covers mine, and I look up to see Amy’s eyes full of concern. “It’s beautiful, sweetie. Everyone will be blown away tomorrow night.”