Page 107 of Rogue

In a low, unrecognizable voice, I manage to ask, “Where’s Jaxson?”

“Dead.”

No. Oh sweet Mary no.I fall back onto my ass, drawing my knees into my chest, and bury my head in my arms.

Jaxson, oh Jaxson.

“We almost escaped. He wounded Novák’s beast of a bodyguard and had Novák pinned to the carpet by the throat. Then five more men charged into the room, knives and guns drawn. They cut him up, then killed him. All this blood is”—she holds out her arms—“his.”

I’m dying. Can’t draw air into my lungs. Can’t breathe or think or do anything except rock back and forth, back and forth. I held my papa’s head in my lap as he passed away. I took Mama’s hand in my own as she fell into an endless sleep. And Jaxson?

It’s my fault. My mistake . . . in trusting Francis.

“It’s you,” Veronica exclaims.

I drag my head up but can’t see her. She’s a distant shape in a cloud of tears.

“It’s you,” she repeats. “You’re the woman he told me about. I used every tool trying to seduce him. Flirted. Acted pissy. Begged. And you know what he finally told me?”

No. No. No.

“‘Although your offer is tempting, I can’t take you up on it. I’m madly in love with a fireball. If I touch you, fuck you, whip you with my belt, and put you over my knee, I’ll only be thinking of her.’ You’re . . .her?”

I stare at her, not seeing her. Replaying last night over and over in my head. Jaxson kissing me. Jaxson smirking down at me and telling me I’m a naughty girl. Jaxson murmuring “I love you” before I fell into a deep sleep within his arms.

Dead. He’s dead.

I slowly stand, placing a hand against the wall to steady myself. Reaching into my pocket, I withdraw my cell phone, dial 911, and toss it to her. “You need an ambulance.”

She nods, her eyes widening before I turn and stumble for the door.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

Nowhere. Nowhere fast.

I’m numb. Lost in a sea of endless emotion. Everything I’ve been through has all come to this. The exact moment my life turns inside out and leaves me empty.

Jaxson.

I killed my lover, my heart.

I’m sorry.

29

Paris

“Jaxson,” a hoarse female voice rasps.

Mine. It’s my voice.

Jaxson.His name’s always fresh on my lips. The first person I think of when I wake and the last person I imagine before falling asleep. A habit, much like breathing.

I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.

My mouth’s dry like I’ve been sucking on cotton balls. I move my jaw, bringing me back into the present, then acclimate myself first to the dim cell, then to the larger prison the Pricks dumped me in.

There’s a dampness in the room and an accompanying chill in the air.Eau desewage causes my nose to wrinkle. The only light comes from high above, a pinprick of a hole at the top end of an air tunnel, leading out onto the bustling city streets of Paris.