Page 69 of Gunnar

“What?” he demands, stepping closer, hunger and hope warring in his expression. “Wanted what?”

I reach out, my hand trembling slightly as I place it gently on his arm. The contact makes him freeze, his breath catching in his throat. I can see how desperate he is for my touch, how much he wants every bit of this to be real.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” I ask, letting my eyes fill with tears I don’t feel, my voice cracking with emotion manufactured from pure terror. “All these years… If you had told me… If I had known…”

“You wouldn’t have cared,” he grumbles, uncertainty cracking through his prior position. “You were too busy with them. With the actors and the athletes and the… the animals. You never looked at me.”

“I was blind,” I admit, the lie tasting like copper on my tongue. “I was stupid. I was surrounded by people who wanted something from me, and I couldn’t see the one person who wanted… who wanted me.”

Jake’s breathing is shallow and fast as he stares down at me. His brows are pinched together, as though he’s trying to translate a language he barely understands.

“You’ve been part of my life for almost a decade, Jake,” I continue, pressing the advantage, letting my hand slide to his hand before my fingers intertwine with his. “You’ve been there for everything. My first contract. My first award. My mother’s funeral. What makes you think I wouldn’t care? What makes you think I wouldn’t have chosen…” I shake my head slowly, letting the words trail off, allowing him to fill in the blank with whatever fantasy he needs.

“You’re lying,” he whispers, but the words lack conviction. “You’re just saying this because you’re scared. Because you’re trapped. Because you want me to let you go.”

“No, Jake. I’m not.” I force myself to stand, the chain rattling as I move closer to him, invading his space until my body is flush against him. Reaching up, my hand trembling—with what I hope he sees as nerves instead of fear—I run my fingers along his jaw. I dust them over his stubble and the tension in his jaw as he holds his breath, like he’s afraid to move and break the spell.

“Would I be here with you?” I continue, my voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “He doesn’t care about me like you do. You’ve proved that. You took me from him. Do you see him doing the same? Do you see him tearing the world apart to find me? No… because he doesn’t love me. Not like you do.” The words burn, each one a betrayal of the man who I know, with every ounce of my being, is tearing the world apart to find me.

“You’re just saying that,” Jake repeats hesitantly, his hands on my waist with a tentative, hopeful grip.

“If I had only known… I wouldn’t have waited so long to do this.” I push onto my toes, my free hand bracing against his chest, and I press my lips to his. The kiss is brief and chaste, over before it can truly begin, but it has the effect I hoped for. Jake whimpers, like I’ve reached inside his chest and touched his heart. His hands tighten on my waist as he pulls me closer. I force myself not to recoil, not wanting to show him the revulsion that’s screaming through every nerve in my body.

My fingers laced with his, I walk us both to the bed and take a seat on the edge of it. Jake stares at me, his chest heaving as his expression cycles through emotions too fast to track. Finally, he sinks onto the edge of the bed beside me, his thigh resting against mine. He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and wet. Hope flickers in his gaze as he begins to speak. “I knew… eventually you would see. Eventually, you would look at me and understand that you were meant to be mine all along.”

I watch him, this broken man who has built and destroyed my life in equal measure, and I feel a strange pity. Completely detached from reality, he’s pathetic—but he’s also dangerous. I need to keep him talking, keep him hoping, and ensure he believes that I’m actually choosing him… until Gunnar arrives to end this nightmare.

Because Gunnar is on his way. That thought is the only thing keeping me from dissolving into panic. I pray he is looking and they are close to finding me. Because he needs to find me before I’m forced to push this performance further than I am prepared to, causing this fantasy I’m helping Jake construct to collapse under the weight of my lies.

The SUV screeches to a stop half a block from the address Mattis provided, tires smoking against the asphalt. I open my door before the vehicle fully settles. Hawk and Jagger flank me, weapons drawn, with Damon covering the rear. We move with the precision of men who’ve done this a thousand times in far worse places than an industrial street in Los Angeles.

The building, a converted textile factory made of brick and rusted metal, looms before us. It’s exactly as Mattis described, down to the Marshall Manufacturing sign across the street, partially obscured by a tarp that flutters in the evening breeze. Every instinct I possess screams that she’s inside. She’s close, and I’m seconds away from either salvation or devastation.

We enter silently. The interior is cavernous, the space divided into makeshift rooms. I sweep left, Hawk right, Jagger center, our movements synchronized, lethal, and practiced as Damon stands sentry at the exit.

I hear Devyn’s voice, and my heart lurches into my throat. She is not screaming or crying. She’s talking in a low, intimate tone that makes my blood run cold. I hear Jake, too, responding with the delusional affection of a man who believes his fantasies have finally become real.

Lifting my hand, I gesture to Hawk and Jagger, alerting them to the room a few feet from me. They make their way to me stealthily, their boots silent on the concrete floor. When they flank me, I raise my gun and use my free hand on the door handle, finding it locked. I lift my hand with three fingers in the air before taking a small step backward and lowering it.

Three.

Two.

One.

I breach the door with a kick that splinters the frame, the sound like a gunshot in the otherwise quiet building. Hawk and Jagger are on my heels, entering the room a second behind me with their guns drawn.

Devyn is sitting on the bed, chained to the floor like an animal. She’s wearing a dress that isn’t her style, looking like she was dressed up for his pleasure, and seemingly unharmed.

Jake stands a few feet from her, his hands animated as he rambles excitedly. His face turns toward the door with an expression that shifts from adoration to shock and then rage in the space of a heartbeat. He lunges toward Devyn, his hands scrambling to grab any part of her, the coward looking to use her as a hostage or a shield.

I flex my finger on the trigger and squeeze. The shot is placed with the type of precision that comes from years of training—and the desperation that comes from love—hitting him in the shoulder. It spins him around, sending him stumbling backward. He crashes into the wall and slides down, leaving a smear of blood on the concrete as his arm hangs useless at his side. He tries to rise and reach for Devyn again with his good hand. When his fingers dust against the fabric of her skirt, Jagger steps between them.

Looming over him and shoving the silencer of his gun to Jake’s forehead, he booms, “Move and I’ll paint the wall with all your fucked-up thoughts.”

Hawk rushes past me, frisking Jake and searching his pockets for keys and weapons. I cross to the bed in a few quick strides, holstering my weapon. My hands find her face, her shoulders, and her arms. I touch her everywhere, ensuring she’s okay. “Did he hurt you?” I demand. “Did he touch you?”

Devyn stares at me, her eyes wide and shocked. She shakes her head, the movement small and tentative, like she’s afraid this is a dream she’ll wake from. “No,” she whispers. “No, he didn’t touch me. Not like that. He just… He wanted to talk. He wanted⁠—”