Page 98 of Freeing Denver

From the corner of my eye, I see Alistair shift. “Colt, don’t torture yourself with this. Let’s just find her.”

I ignore him, keeping my eyes on the doctor. “In. What. Way?”

Dr. Shannon shifts, cradling her hand. “Let’s just say the second that baby is out, he’ll make the most of what he paid for her. If she’s lucky, she’ll die quick.”

I stare down at her, at the total lack of feeling in her expression, more concerned about her broken fingers than a woman and child she sent to their deaths.

“You’re going to tell me everything you know about Eli Eddards,” I say. “And you won’t leave a thing out.”

Dr. Shannon glares up at me. “Eli would do far worse things to me than you ever will.”

“Oh, I won’t touch you.” I step closer, tilting my head. “But I’ll let her do whatever the fuck she wants to you.” I throw my thumb in Sandy’s direction, who smiles wildly. I lean forward and grip the arms of the chair the doctor is sitting in and lower my voice. “And this time, I’ll give her tools.”

Chapter 29

Denver

When I woke in Kitrick’s bed, he told me Eli had been called away by Spider for a few days at least, so I don’t move the entire time he’s gone. I feel safer in a bed that Eli has never slept in, and it means I can obsessively watch the news, which I do.

I’m mentioned a few times a day, but there are never any leads. I thought maybe visiting the doctors meant I might have been spotted, but no recent photos of me appear, and the reports are always the same—I’m gone, and Ranger is looking for me.

Still, I watch. I obsess over every word, every report from outside my home in San Francisco and the hotel I was staying at with Colt before I was taken. I’m watching another reworded report when Kitrick returns.

“He’s on his way home,” Kitrick says as he hands me a plate with chips and sandwiches. “Eat.”

I nod, eyes fixed on the screen as I nibble at the food.

“I … heard something from the other men.”

My gaze cuts to his. He’s sitting in the chair in the corner, his forearms resting on his thighs.

“What did you hear?”

“Spider might be selling you on again.”

I pause, a sandwich at my lips, my hand lowering to the plate. It’s beyond strange to hear someone talk about me the way he is—like I’m a commodity, an item to be shipped to whoever has the most money.

Kitrick doesn’t look at me. “The man who is thinking of buying you … few have ever even seen his face. He keeps quiet, but his reputation …” He closes his eyes. “If you’re going to who I think you are?—”

“Just say it,” I whisper.

He laces his fingers together, his knuckles whitening. “You’ll be dead by the end of the week.”

My head swims. Tears tickle my lashes, and the plate slips from my lap and to the floor. It thuds against the carpet, the sandwich and chips scattering.

Dead.

I’m going to die.

He’s going to kill me.

Warm hands grip mine, Kitrick sitting in front of me.

A teardrop lands on our joined hands, my cheeks wet.

Almost seven weeks. I’ve been here close to two months, and I’ve cried, I’ve begged, I’ve been locked away, I’ve broken down.

Self-preservation took the lead, because I thought if I behaved, I’d survive.