Page 8 of Silas

She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be in this car with you.”

“You’d rather go back?” I ask, frustration creeping into my voice. “I can turn around and bring you back there.”

The terror in her eyes at this suggestion breaks something inside me. “No! Please. No. Please, no. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have questioned you.” She shrinks against the window, shaking all over, as if I’d lifted my fist toward her.

“Hey, whoa.” I glance at her, trying to soften my tone. “I told you I won’t hurt you.”

“It’s my place.”

I snap my head around. “Yourplace? To be hurt?”

A shake of her head—this one means she can’t possibly explain it to me, and can’t even try.

“Jesus, Naomi.”

“You take the Lord’s name in vain rather liberally, Mr. Silas.”

I quirk a grin at her. “Sure do. Don’t like it?”

She rolls her shoulders. “It’s not my place to tell you otherwise. I’m sorry for speaking out of turn.”

“You apologize for everything.” I eye her. “You don’t need to apologize to me. Not for a damn thing. Not ever. You’re not gonna make me angry. I won’t ever touch you unless you allow it. That’s a promise, okay?”

She stares at me, uncomprehending. “Sir?”

“Sir. Fuck, quit calling me sir. I’m just some guy, all right? I don’t own you. I’m not your superior or your better, or anything. I’m just Silas.”

“Yes sir.” She realizes her gaffe and blanches. “I’m sorry.”

I can’t help a laugh. “All right, all right. Don’t hurt yourself.”

I switch my grip on the wheel, guiding it with my left hand and resting my hand, somewhat heavily, on the gear shifter. It’s an abrupt movement, and she lurches away from me, shrinking against the door. She’s panicking, panting.

“Jesus, you’re more skittish than day old horse.” I eye her, thinking. “Look, you can’t—” I trail off. “Shit. I can’t expect you to not be afraid of me. It’s obvious you’ve been abused your whole life. You’ve got no reason to trust me.”

I pull my Glock from the holster at the small of my back, moving slowly. I twist it to grip it by the barrel and hand it to her. “Take it.”

She stares at it like it’s a snake. “Why?”

“You think I’m gonna hurt you, shoot me.”

She moves her gaze from the gun to my eyes. “No, I…I…”

I place it on her thigh without making contact. “It doesn’t have a safety, and it’s loaded. So, you know, keep your finger off the trigger.”

“Wh-why?” Her voice shakes.

“Put you at ease, a little.”

She places her palm over the weapon, pinning it in place without actually taking it, staring at it. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me. That’ll help you trust me. You know I won’t touch you without your permission, cause you can just shoot me.”

“Why…” she trails off, and then seems to find the courage to ask the question. “Why do you have a gun?”

“Some folks out there don’t like me. It’s for protection.”

She looks at me for a moment, breathing carefully, shallowly. “Are you kidnapping me?”