The person who touched me. Who forced me. He’ll never pray with me again. Never pray with anyone. And I know that despite every single one of his sermons that he isn’t going to heaven. He doesn’t deserve to.
The man with the green eyes turns to me. “Let’s go, little bird.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“I’m not leaving you here,” he snarls, looking as fierce as any demon. Because I shot him.
I hid that rifle under the floorboard six months ago, dreaming of the day when I’d use it. And never daring to think about the blood that would follow. It spills across his chest, bright and crimson. I hadn’t meant to hurt him, but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t care. What will he do to me? Leader Allen was a man of God, and his punishment had been harsh. And this man, this man of tattoos and guns—his will be worse. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He reaches for my wrist. A twist, and the rifle falls to the floor.
I only have a second to react before he hauls me into his arms. He’s taking me. I don’t know how he manages to pull me when he’s been shot, but we’re leaving the house at a rapid pace. No no no. I only got free from Leader Allen two seconds ago. I won’t be held captive by yet another man with dark intentions. I’m punching him, yelling at him. Anything. Everything.
The sunlight blinds me, the world a blur of light spots and green eyes.
A shot rings out. Are they shooting someone else?
Dirt sprays against my leg, and I realize that someone is shooting at us. The men of Harmony Hills must have realized that their leader is dead. They’re fighting back.
The man shoves me into one of the large black cars and climbs in after me.
I scramble back, trying to get out. If he closes that door, I’m trapped.
With a cruel wrench, he twists me into the seat. The door closes as loud as a gunshot. Tires squeal as they fight the dirt for purchase. The car moves forward fast enough to lock me into the seat.
“No,” I’m shouting, crying. “Let me go.”
What will he do to me? How will he punish me? I hated the prayer sessions, the dry rice beneath my knees, but at least I knew what to expect. This is my home.
“They’ll kill you,” he growls. “Don’t you get that? You were in the room with us. You held a fucking gun on him. Doesn’t matter if your bullet ended up inside me or him. They’ll come for you. And no one here will protect you.”
He may as well have shot me, instead of the other way around. There’s a hole where all my fight had been, my struggle, spilling scarlet. “How do you know that?”
“Because if there was, you wouldn’t have been in that house.”
And I leave Harmony Hills, not on the back of a white horse, holding my prince.
I leave with the devil himself.
Chapter Two
His name is Luca.
I learn that early, from the driver of the big black car we’re in. I can’t see him through the dark-glass divider, but I hear him over some kind of speaker system. “Where to?”
“Away from this hellhole,” he snarls. “I’ll need to stop in a few hours. I’m hit.”
A whistle. “Someone shot you? Damn, Luca, you’re losing your touch.”
Green eyes narrow on me. “Don’t worry. I’ll get mine.”
My heart thuds against my ribs. What will he get? What will he do to me?
“Open that,” he says softly, voice laced with menace.
I glance sideways at the glossy wooden panel. Is there a gun inside? He’s waiting for me, infinite patience while blood continues to seep onto his white shirt. My hands grope at the smooth surface, searching for a latch. I must find it, because a small door levers open.
Inside a compartment there’s a neat stash of alcohol swabs, of cotton gauze.
A first aid kit is more terrifying than a weapon. How violent is this man?
His voice runs over my skin, dark and silky. “You need to clean the blood first.”
My breath catches. He takes off his shirt, revealing miles of muscle, tan skin, and tattoos up his arm. The wound looked extreme with blood spilling out, but it hardly registers against the hard-shaped masculinity of this man. He looks like he could have been shot four times and kept going, a machine built from sinew and stone.
He gestures to the cabinet. “Alcohol wipes.”
I jump at the reminder, pulling out three packets with shaking hands.
His body reclines in the seat, watching me through hooded eyes. He wants me to clean the blood? It’s fair, considering I’m the reason he’s wounded. Except that will mean getting close to him. It will mean touching him.
The car sways gentle from the deeply rutted road. It will be an hour until we hit the farmer’s market where I sometimes help sell vegetables. And beyond that? I don’t know what’s beyond these hills, but I’m about to find out.
Keep my back against the side of the car, I scoot around to his side. Already it feels warmer, this close to his body. Like he’s vibrating with energy even while he stays still.