Page 23 of Chicago Sin

Almost too perfectly. Either she’s more worried about getting this money in the bank than she is her safety with me, or she’s planning something.

I hope it’s the former.

I get in and start the van. Correction—try to start the van. It takes a couple attempts before it sputters to life. I don’t know how the fuck she handles flower deliveries with a van that needs work. Which I guess speaks to her money problems.

The van smells of lilac and gasoline, and there is a large crack in the windshield. Though the engine is now running, it’s not exactly humming like a well-oiled machine. It’ll be a miracle if we even make it out of this alley.

I glance at her hands in her lap. Her wrists still wear the mark of the tape I bound them with, and there’s an angry red scrape down her arm.

The fuck?

My hand shoots out to snatch up her wrist before I can dial back the aggression. I’m pissed at myself for hurting her. I don’t even know when it happened. My body goes into full rage mode like I’m going to defend her against myself. The aggression is different from how I was back there with the hitman. Not so clean and clinical. There’s emotion this time.

She gasps and tries to pull away. I force myself to gentle my hold because I’m scaring the hell out of her. “Did I do that?” I manage to choke, running my thumb over the long thick red line.

She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

“What? The scratch?” A shaky laugh tumbles from her lips. “No. My kitten did that last night. He fell in the bathtub while I was in it. Turns out, cats can fly.” Another nervous laugh.

Kitten.

Kitten. It takes a moment for the word to even process. Cute furry thing with claws. Right. Her cat scratched her.

Not me.

I relax my hold and sit back in my seat, forcing myself to exhale. I want to ask if I hurt her, but I already know I did. The skin around her wrists and bruises on her hips. Hopefully nothing worse. Nothing deep and psychological that will haunt her for the rest of her life.

Yeah, right. Guy comes in, kills a man in front of her, then ties her up and fucks her. She’s definitely scarred for life.

“My thighs are all scratched up, too.”

My eyes drop to the hemline of her short skirt. Fuck if I don’t want to see those scratches for myself now.

I wrench my gaze back to the windshield. I need to get my head back in the game. I dip my cock in a chick once, and suddenly everything’s haywire for me.

Hannah’s got some kind of magic pussy or something. Like that doesn’t sound insane.

“Which bank?” I ask roughly. “They’d better have a drive-thru.”

“Chicago City Bank on Lincoln. Um...hopefully.” She sounds doubtful like she knows they don’t but just isn’t telling me.

“Do they or don’t they, Flowers?” I snap.

She reaches over and touches my forearm. “Please? I have to make this deposit.”

It’s so fucked that I’m even considering this. She’s my hostage until I figure out what the hell I’m going to do with her, and I’m going to go run her errands?

Give her at least a dozen opportunities to signal for help or run away?

On the other hand, the vague plan in the back of my head is to sit on her until I get a feel for her. Figure out if she’s gonna squeal or not. Ignoring her needs isn’t going to win trust. And since I seem reluctant to make the kind of threats that will keep her quiet out of fear, I’m probably gonna have to go on trust if I don’t want to get rid of her.

And I definitely don’t.

I grind my molars, trying to come to a decision. Stopping at the bank is a really, really bad one. I can’t send her in alone. I can’t leave her in the van unless I tie her up in the back, and doing that in public would be risky.

“Please.”