We split off, heading in opposite directions. I couldn’t help but glance back at Nine.
For the first time since I met him, he seemed almost like an actual feeling human being. Then again, facing death could do that to even the most hardened sociopath.
Stats:
17 – number of times I’d been called some form of cattle or sheep or a cat
8256 – times I tried to convince myself I was not developing feelings for my executioner 8254 – times I succeeded in convincing myself I was not developing feelings for my executioner 2 – times I failed at convincing myself I was not developing feelings for my executioner
Fuck me
Things were beyond complicated. I was a rational human being, so logic dictated that you do not fall in love with a man who constantly reminded you he was going to kill you.
The problem was, his dick was so good at helping me forget logic. He made me feel for him.
The saying is you can’t help who you fall in love with, but really? Did it have to happen with a psychopathic killer?
Though I didn’t think it was quite love, but…
I'd never felt as alive as I did with him.
Although I never thought I would develop any feelings other than loathing toward my captor, somewhere along the line, I had.
Maybe I was looking too deep into what he said after he saved my life, or the fact that he saved my life.
The man was charming and sexy, mysterious and alluring, on top of being dangerous. All things that attracted me in the worst ways.
Heart stopping danger, swoon worthy man, and a deadly mystery.
Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe I was a masochist. Then again, maybe I finally found a man worth fighting for. Who knew?
Whatever it was, I was his…for however much longer I lived.
“Are you ever going to stop hugging that thing?” he asked as I sat in bed, the bunny in my lap, playing a mindless game of solitaire.
“Want me to hug you instead?”
He glared at me, and I smirked in return.
Sir Flopsalot, as I was affectionately calling my stuffed bunny, was so soft and cuddly, how could I not hug him all the time?
The fact that Six seemed a bit jealous of the fluff stuffed fabric amused me, and made me snuggle it more.
It was early in the morning, and Six had been up since before the sun trying to get in contact with Five. Simply by his agitated behavior, the talk with Nine the day before had riled up his suspicions of Jason.
One third of their ranks were gone, which would amp anyone up, but it was something Nine said that lit Six.
I let out a sigh and rolled over to reach the remote on the nightstand. He gave me a glare, but I ignored him as the TV came to life.
I didn’t even get a chance to change the channel or process what show it was when I recognized a photo of the Las Vegas Coroner’s Office plastered on the screen.
A few seconds later, pictures of multiple ME and coroner’s offices popped up, and I unmuted the volume.
“Around the country there have been a slew of explosions to local morgues. Police are still on the lookout for Paisley Warren, a lab assistant wanted for questioning from the devastation in Cincinnati.” The photo from my ID popped up, and the image I hadn’t seen in months almost scared me. “There is nothing to place Warren at the site in Indianapolis or the explosion in Las Vegas, but police have confirmed that similar explosives were used at all three facilities.”
My mouth dropped open, and my eyes widened.
Shit. Motherfucker. KicktheshitoutofthesefuckingKillingCorpsAssholes.
Officially wanted across the country.
I slammed my head into Sir Flopsalot and whimpered.
“It could be worse.”
I turned and glared at him. “How?”
“There’s been no trace of you. The police aren’t even sure you’re alive.”
“Jason’s helped with that, hasn’t he?” I asked. Six nodded. “This is a disaster.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Really? I thought I was supposed to be your cover. How does my face being blasted all over the place not qualify as a bad thing? Dyeing my hair and sticking contacts in my eyes doesn’t hide my features.”
I hopped off the bed and began pacing, biting on my thumbnail.
“People aren’t that observant. They see the colors first.”
“Maybe, but don’t even get me started on the fact that the person supposedly helping to hide me is also someone you suspect of trying to off you.”
That was the moment I realized there was not one, but two guns trained on me—Six and whoever was taking out the Cleaners.
Late in the evening or early morning hours, Six’s phone rang, scaring the shit out of me as it felt like I’d just drifted to sleep.
“Jason?” he said into the receiver.
I couldn’t hear the words, but I could tell they were rushed, worried.