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Please don’t hurt Jude!

But then Jude rises from the other side of the table. Blood dots his breathtaking face but he’s otherwise uninjured.

“Sweet boy,” he rasps out. “Fuck, what has he done to you?”

“You’re here.” A sob catches in my throat as more tears well and fall. “You came for me.”

“You knew I would.”

He’s right.

I absolutely knew it.

Jude promised to protect me and he’s made good on that promise.

“I didn’t give in,” I tell him as he leans over to kiss my head. “He said all these terrible things and I fought him. Even like this. I was trying to be brave and stand up for myself.”

He runs his fingers through my hair before he starts untying one of the ropes. “Of course you did. You’re Tate fucking Prince. You saved me. I had no doubt you’d save yourself.”

I saved him?

My beautiful, tortured Jude?

As my left hand comes free, I let out a cry of relief. He moves on to the next one. Once he’s untied my hands, he disappears out of sight to work on my legs. Now that my arms are free and I can draw them to me, my muscles begin to quiver out of control.

Soon I’ll be out of here.

The cops can haul that bastard away and this will all be over.

It’s then I begin to smell something. Something bad and sinister considering our situation.Gas.

“Jude,” I croak out.

My warning is too late. Jude may have got a few hits on Sean, but he clearly didn’t incapacitate him. And while Jude was focused on me, Sean took his own opportunity.

Sean staggers out of the kitchen into my view and backs himself toward the front door. “Saved?” he sneers, gesturing wildly at us with an unlit match in his hand. “Nothing can save you now.”

Jude

I’m vibrating with anger and the desire to rip Baker’s head clear off his shoulders, but helping Tate is the main priority. Then I can fuck Baker up.

As I help Tate slide off the table, I keep an eye on the motherfucker who hurt my man. He’s standing in the doorway of the apartment, an evil sneer on his face.

Two things happen at once. I smell gas and then I see Baker strike a match. The flame is small and insignificant, but I know the second he tosses it, we could be in real trouble.

Baker’s eyes meet mine as he flicks it into the living room. It lands on the sofa and goes out. Tate is throwing on his clothes as I take a step toward Baker.

“Don’t,” he warns, striking another match, this time threatening to toss it into the kitchen. “I really don’t want to have to do this to you again, Jude.”

Again?

Tate, who’s now dressed, clutches onto my arm and squeezes. “Just leave, Sean. Go back home to your family.”

The match goes out and burns Baker’s finger. He curses and quickly strikes another one.

“You know,” Baker says, eyes searing into me. “You’re a real piece of work. Your mom’s death could have been avoided had you”—he points a finger at us and waggles it between me and Tate—“figured this out in high school.”

This time, he tosses the match into the living room. It doesn’t go out and ignites a puff of cotton stuffing that’s been torn from the couch.