She shakes her head. Miraculous that she hasn’t broken down yet. As a specialist at reading body language, I also note the corner of her mouth tightening ever so little. How she swallows hard. How calculating she is. No hysterics. No desperate denial. This girl has compartments inside her. Locked ones. God, I’d love to open any of them.
“Without a skilled defense,” I go on, getting serious, “even if you were charged at the lowest criminal history category, you could serve two, possibly three years. More if the wrong people get ambitious.”
Her attention stays fixed on me the whole time. That shouldn’t impress me. It does.
“Do you understand everything I’ve explained, Jubilee?”
She nods. Then she licks rain from her upper lip and shivers. I track the movement like an absolute idiot. At least, I’m a professional idiot.
“Can I help?” she asks.
I blink. Of all the possible responses—crying, vomiting, screaming, calling me a sociopath, which would be rude and inaccurate—that is not the one I expected.
I arch a brow. “Help with the theoretical non-police option?”
She drags in a deep breath. Her eyes squeeze shut. “Three. Fifty-nine. Seven. Eighty-three. Eleven.”
When she opens them again, her face has changed. The panic is still there. The shock too. Her body hasn’t stopped shaking. But beneath it, a hell-bent feminine willfulness rises, sharpening.
“I assume we can’t leave it here,” she remarks, gesturing without looking.
“We?”
She ignores that. Which I also like. A lot.
“Police could investigate.” She scans the trees. “I’ve run this route a hundred times. If he was watching me, stalking me, he could have pictures. Notes. My schedule. My name.” She swallows hard and repeats the numbers. “We have to get rid of the body. R-right?”
Hot, violent energy slams behind my ribs, terribly awake—a protective instinct. The urge to put myself between her and every consequence coming for her hits me like the devil wearing a halo.
Because she’s right. Because she is brilliant and bloody and trying to reason her way out of a nightmare. Because she has listened to me explain how the world will punish her for surviving, and instead of collapsing, she’s ready to hide a body.
My good girl has teeth.
And I have never been in more trouble in my entire life. Not morally. That ship sailed, caught fire, and sank years ago. Practically.
I am a man with five million followers. A verified account. A face women recognize in grocery stores because I bake croissants, rescue cats, ride a motorcycle, and occasionally post shirtless videos while feeding chickens. The internet thinks I am a wholesome cinnamon roll with nice forearms. Okay. Part of that is true.
But this girl has my face. She has my name, if she asks for it. And if she comes with me, she will know exactly where a body disappears tonight.
Every survival instinct screams to send her home, clean this up alone, and hope she stays too traumatized to remember details. Instead, I focus on the blood on her skin, the storm in her expression, the knife trembling in her grip, and I think—No.
Leaving would break her. Watching would hollow her out. Doing might save her.
I hold out my hand. “Give me the knife.” Her fingers tighten. I lower my voice a decibel. “Jubilee.”
Her gaze holds mine for one beat. Two. Then she turns the handle toward me. Trust. Not complete. Not stupid. But enough. A dangerously intoxicating amount, really. I take the knife carefully and fold it into her waistband. Then I stand.
“Can you walk?”
Her chin lifts. “Um, I’m optimistic. I don’t know if my legs are,” she admits.
I smile despite myself. “Good enough for me.”
She should feel fragile. But the second her palm meets mine, a bright, hot sensation snaps under my skin. Like a live wire. I pull her to her feet, and she sways forward, catching herself against me. The soft weight of her breasts presses against me. I do my best to spam-filter my brain before it can execute other thoughts.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“My truck.”
