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)
He doesn’t reach for my hand as the vehicle pulls away from the motel like he did when we were walking back to the market to get supplies earlier. I think the lack of connection is what makes my mind race with all the possibilities.
I want to believe Nash could protect me, but at the end of the day, he was one of Cortez’s victims too. I don’t get the vibe from him that he was ignorant to all the terrible things in the world before that happened either. I don’t think his diligence and ability to spot the bad people, like he pointed out at the market, stemmed from that abduction. So, if he was aware of what could happen, then why was he taken?
The trembling starts right at the center of me, the unease not taking long at all to make its way to my arms and legs.
“Turn up the heat,” Nash snaps, noticing the way I twist my fingers together.
My jaw aches from trying to keep my teeth from chattering together.
“You okay?” he asks, his lips close enough to my ear that I feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek.
“F-fine,” I stutter, pulling a disbelieving scoff from his lips.
He presses his palm to my leg, his hand running up and down the length of it. I don’t tell him that I’m not actually cold, that it’s fear taking over.
We’re on the road for what seems like forever, but in all honesty, it’s probably just over an hour.
“Almost there,” Nash assures me. Five minutes later, the vehicle turns off the road, the beam of the headlights fading out in front of us.
When we come to a stop, Nash takes the time to look around, his gaze traveling over every window as if he’s expecting an ambush.
“No policía,” the man says without looking back at us.
Before climbing out, Nash places a stack of bills on the console at the man’s elbow. I scramble after him, knowing I may not be completely safe, but I’m safer by his side.
The driver doesn’t hesitate to pull away the second the back passenger door is closed. It leaves us standing in utter darkness.
I blink into the blackness as if my eyes are the problem rather than being in an area devoid of any form of civilization. The moon doesn’t offer much help as it tries to shine from behind the clouds.
Nash crouches, rustling through the bag we brought from the motel room.
“Here,” he says, pressing a flashlight into my hands.
It doesn’t work like I expected when I turn it on. It has a red film over it.
“It’ll help maintain your night vision and it’s difficult to see from a distance. I need you to keep close, and not say a word. This isn’t time for conversation.”
I swallow down a rebuttal, despite my urge to tell him I fucking know this isn’t the time to chat. I blame my nerves on the agitation coursing through my veins.
I understand his explanation about my clothes as we walk, the sound of the slow rolling river guiding us forward. The brush and vegetation, although dead due to the winter season, still grips and clings to what I’m wearing. We’d be slowed down even more if I were wearing the baggy clothes Cerberus donated to me.
The water is freezing, but I somehow manage not to make a sound when it laps at my shoes.
Nash grips my hand as we make it to the center of the river, the water up to my breasts, the chatter in my jaw no longer due to fear but the chill.
I feel disgusting and frozen to the bone by the time we reach the other side of the river. I still don’t speak, knowing we aren’t exactly in the clear just yet.
Nash still hasn’t let go of my hand, and I have no plans to pull away from him anytime soon. We don’t make it a hundred yards from the river when headlights shine directly at us.
Nash keeps walking, our arms stretching out, our connection unbroken as I freeze, literally caught in the headlights.
“Now is not the time,” a voice says in the distance.
“It’s Angel,” Nash assures me, but knowing it isn’t border patrol or the militia doesn’t exactly bring any more confidence in my safety.
Angel hates me, and I know that the help we’re receiving is because of his connection to Nash. He’d no doubt drown me in the river if he got the chance.
“Where’s Lauren?” Nash asks once we reach the truck.
“At home, pissed because I wouldn’t let her come,” Angel grumbles. “Gonna hear about it for a week. Get in so I can get back to her.”
Nash opens the back door of the truck, handing over a blanket before wrapping himself in one. Instead of sitting up front with Angel, he climbs in the back with me, a tighter squeeze than the previous vehicle, due to the infant car seat against the far side of the truck.