Page 9

She needed to cowgirl up and get it together. No one liked a whiner. And the last thing she wanted to be was more of a burden. Sure, the man who’d kidnapped her a year ago was Sevin’s father. But Sevin had been nothing but nice to her. Well, to Boone. Did he even know about her? Had her Daddy even mentioned her?

And how was it that a rancher commando Daddy like Boone knew people in the Cosa Nostra well enough to stop by their house anyway? Did they meet by accident one day at the movies? Or in a bar? One halfway between Wilder, Wyoming and Vancouver, Washington. She didn’t think so.

And Boone was trying to kill Sevin’s father. How could she trust someone who helped a person kill his own father? Not that she wasn’t grateful. Ugh! It was so confusing.

“Holy fu… dge. Fudgesicles.” She glanced at Boone, who stared at her with that single brow raised expression. Not good.

Arriving at Sevin’s house hadn’t helped her feel better at all. It wasn’t a house at all. It was a compound. Just like all the ones she’d been held in for the past year.

Sure, it was nicer. A medieval compound with a castle like the last place she’d been held. This looked like a ritzy gated subdivision. But she’d had the same sick feeling in her stomach every time Nico had her moved.

The stone fence surrounding the property barred anyone from seeing anything. It was too high to climb without drawing attention. Plenty of gated communities had solid fences around them. That wasn’t what made it stand out. As they’d driven down the road leading to the main entrance, the manned gates along the fence made it different. She didn’t know a lot, but she’d learned to spot someone carrying a gun under their suit jacket. Men with guns carried themselves differently.

The closer they got, the more she struggled to breathe. She needed to get a grip. This was part of Boone’s world. That meant she needed to stop being such an idiot. No one else was panicking, and they had dealt with much worse things than she had.

Closing her eyes, she tried to picture fuzzy bunnies and unicorns. Only, within a few seconds, the bunny had a gun like the one those men on the chopper had used to shoot at them and the unicorn was sharpening his horn with a rasp until the point was extra sharp. So much for imaginary friends helping.

When they stopped at the main entrance and two scary looking men approached their SUV, she fought the urge to coweron the floor of the backseat. She buried her face in Boone’s chest and did her best not to whimper.

One arm wrapped around her as he put a thick, calloused finger under her chin, tipping her gaze to meet his. Concern furrowed his brows as he took in her expression. “Hey. What’s this? What’s wrong, baby?”

She wanted to tell him, but the whir of the window lowering caught her attention.

“Can I help you?” the gorilla in the expensive suit asked.

Grif grinned, and when he spoke his voice had a country twang he’d never used before. “I sure hope so. I’m Griffen Turner, and this here is Dutch Holloway. We work for the big guy in the back, Boone Daniels. I think your boss is expectin’ us.”

“You got any weapons with you?”

Grif’s grin disappeared, and his expression darkened. “What do you think?”

It was phrased like a question, but Grif’s tone made it clear it was not.

The man in the suit didn’t react at all. “You’ll need to leave them here.”

“That ain’t going to happen, hoss.”

The man’s eyes were cold. “You can leave them by choice, or I can take them.”

“You can try.” Grif’s grin returned, but no humor lit his words.

Silence fell like lead as Grif held the man’s glare without blinking. The other goon’s phone rang. Answering it, the man listened then nodded. He crossed to the man still having a stare down with Grif and mumbled something in his ear.

Without speaking or dropping his gaze, the man stepped back from the gate as it swung open.

“You have a good day,” Grif said before pulling through the wrought iron gate.

She wiped her trembling hands on her thighs. Her heart raced, and her stomach dropped a notch with each tree they passed. The cedar-lined drive stretched on for what seemed an eternity, ending at a stark white mansion.

Oh, and the entire driveway was painted white. Who painted their driveway white? They probably had to hire someone full time just to paint it every day. They should have just painted the bricks yellow because it felt like they were headed toward a nasty version of Oz.

Panic rattled the thin bars of the cage she kept it locked in. This whole place was nothing more than a sanitized version of the compounds she’d endured for the past year. As the pristine white prison—not prison, house—at the end of the drive, drew closer, her panic broke free and dread filled her lungs.

Breathing grew difficult as her throat tightened. Her chest burned, and spots floated before her eyes. She almost screamed when a large familiar hand landed on her arm and tugged.

“Tildi, are you breathing?”

The words came from far away.