Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I walk out into the room, my argument and assurances on the tip of my tongue, to find it empty.
The clothes I discarded on my trip into the bathroom have been folded and placed neatly at the end of the bed I crashed on for a few hours. Even the comforters have been straightened on both beds.
Ayla is gone, and there’s a part of me that feels relief. The guilt that swims inside of me when she’s around makes it nearly impossible to function and make informed decisions.
The urgency to find her wins out over everything else, however.
I rush to get dressed and grab my money and the key to the room, going over what I could possibly say to her if I did find her. I don’t want to throw it in her face that she asked to come with me, because she might have changed her mind. She doesn’t owe me a damn thing, and I need to let her know she’s not obligated to me on any level.
This chaotic fucking jumble of emotions is both new for me and entirely unwelcome. I don’t want a struggling conscience. I don’t want to have to think of anyone else when I’m trying to make decisions about myself. I haven’t formed connections my entire life because I never wanted to feel responsible for someone else.
It makes a person weak, just like Ayla has discovered in Cortez’s ability to manipulate her into doing horrific things.
But arguing about not wanting it and making that need, that urge to help, dissipate, are two very different things.
I take a deep breath before opening the motel room door, telling myself that I’ll get her across the border, but then she’s on her own. It’s just how it has to be. I can’t get tangled up with anything where she’s concerned.
I open the door, finding her standing just outside, and with the relieved rush of air that leaves my lungs, so does the vow I mentally made only seconds prior.
Chapter 27
Ayla
“I thought you might want a little privacy,” I say when he pulls the door closed behind him.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters as he turns to face the door, using the key to click the lock into place.
His face looks scrunched when he turns back around as if the half apology tastes terrible in his mouth.
I swallow and nod. What else could I say right now?
He had no right to just strip down right in front of me. On some level, it’s a violation, and I know that. The woman I was before I was taken wouldn’t have hesitated to ask him what his problem was or let him know he can’t just do shit like that.
Just like he mentioned no longer being the same Nash, I’m not the same Ayla either.
That isn’t the most concerning thing for me. I didn’t question his intentions because him getting naked in front of me didn’t bother me. I wasn’t offended. I wasn’t thinking how dare you as my eyes followed him toward the bathroom.
Despite the erection, I didn’t look him up and down and get aroused either. It felt natural, like it wouldn’t be out of character for him to be naked in front of me, and that’s the rub. That’s the part that irritates me more than anything. Cortez was able to change who I was. The treatment and abuse I suffered while in his captivity made me a different person, and I despise the man for it. I should’ve not only been offended, but I should’ve also spoken up against it and put Nash in his place.
I follow closely behind him, making sure to keep my eyes peeled and assessing.
It’s late morning now and the people in this part of Monterrey are moving around looking miserable. I see them as no less of a threat than I would’ve six months ago. I can also see the pain in their eyes, their struggles with addiction, and their lack of hope for any of it changing.
Before, I’d think they get what they put in. If chasing a high twenty-four hours a day is all they can manage rather than getting clean or finding a job, then that’s their own problem.
Now, I have to wonder with the passing of each hopeless person, if they were like me. Did they survive something horrific? Have they used drugs to mask and dull that pain? Did they lose someone they loved more than they loved themselves and this is their existence until they eventually die from it?
“I’ll slit your fucking throat,” Nash growls when a man with twitching fingers stands in our path.
The guy’s eyes dart between the two of us. Although I feel sorry for him, I’m also terrified he’s going to hurt me.
“Fucking asshole,” the guy mutters as he steps out of our way.