'Why were you in prison?'
In a rough, quiet voice I asked.
He rubbed his head, wincing; then, after a long pause, eyes fixed on nothing, said, 'Someone filed complaints against me… but thank God I got out.'
I looked straight into his eyes and murmured, my voice weak, 'Do you believe in God?'
He held my gaze for a long beat, then said, softly:
'Yeah. He can be there in your darkest moments.'
I let my heavy eyelids fall for a beat, mocking, and murmured, 'God was never there in mine.'
My bitter smile was probably something only God could see in that dark.
My head felt leaden, and the pain began at the bullet wound and travelled through every inch of me. I felt as light as paper floating on water. I wanted to sleep for a long time—but his voice cut through:
'You're bleeding out!'
I prised my eyes open, fixing on the glint in his eyes in the dark. 'Mind your own business,' I growled.
He fell quiet. I didn't know how long had passed. The van's engine noise was a lullaby. My eyelids drooped. The bleeding wouldn't stop, and the weakness kept building.
His voice dragged me back again. 'You need to re-dress your wound.'
I lifted the gun towards him for a second, my voice rough with pain. 'I told you—shut it.'
I tore my gaze from his and bent to my leg. I eased the dressing off; it wasn't looking good. The van jolted—must've hit a rut—and a wave of dizziness curled me up small. Maybe it was infected.
The big bloke leaned a little closer, voice low, almost kind. 'Let me help.'
I levelled the pistol at him. 'Try anything and I'll tie your hands. Sit. Still.'
He held my gaze, hesitated, then sank back.
I focused on the bandage, peeling it away to wrap it again. The van lurched hard; I folded in on myself. I hadn't realised I was this bad.
I sagged against the cold metal wall, shivering. I stared at the man opposite. He stared back. I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth and looked away. I couldn't even stand to hunt for clean cloth.
Breathing hard, I looked at him again. He was still watching me.
'Find a strip of cloth in those boxes and change my dressing,' I muttered, ragged. 'But if you slip up… I'll put a bullet in your head.'
He broke eye contact at last, stood, and began rummaging among the cartons.
I shut my eyes. I wanted to keep them open, but I couldn't. Cold sweat slicked my temples; I was shaking with blood loss.
After a moment he sat beside me. With a pause—careful, unsure—he started to undo the old bandage.
My eyelids kept dropping. I let them close—just for a moment—
—and Steven's face flashed behind them, the second I'd raised the gun at him. Only this time his mouth opened and he screamed, 'Wake up!'
My eyes flew open. He was leaning over me, hand shooting for my gun. I lunged for it at the same time.
He reached it first. I smashed the back of his hand. The pistol skittered across the floor and clattered into a corner.
I stared, breath tearing in and out, shock and anger blowing my eyes wide.
He crashed into me, drove a heavy fist into my side. I rammed an elbow up under his arm and kicked my good leg into his gut. He toppled, winded.
I scrambled for the gun, but he clamped a hand round my injured leg and yanked. Blackness pinpricked my vision. I twisted and drove the heel of my boot into his nose. Blood burst from it; he curled with a groan.
Panting, shaking, I stretched for the pistol. My whole body was ice and fury; my breath snagged in my chest.
I was just about to grab it when a white-hot burn ripped through my leg. He'd jammed his finger into the bullet hole and pressed.
A sound tore out of me. Every cell felt lit on fire. My lungs locked; I writhed against the pain.
I let out a ragged groan—every cell in my body felt aflame, screaming. My lungs locked; I curled in on myself, going blue for lack of air.
He yanked my leg, straddled me, planted his knees on either side of my body, raised his fist, and smashed it into my cheek. As his hand cinched round my throat, he snarled, low and vicious, 'Let me tell you why I went to prison…'
Wheezing, I glared at the glint in his eyes in the dark. I couldn't breathe. His face was twisted, hair hanging wild around it. His eyes were blown wide, like a madman's. He growled, 'I like the difficult ones… first they beg you to stop… then they start kicking and writhing.'
He leaned closer, fever-bright. 'But you—you're different.'
I blinked, stunned and sick with hate. Why did the dark bury me every time I took one step towards the light? Maybe I wasn't made for good. Maybe I should've listened to Ashur—maybe I'd have taken fewer hits. Maybe…