6. From Nowhere To Nowhere

From Nowhere To Nowhere

Terra

H e's passed the fuck out. Snoring with his pants still around his ankles. I can't help but laugh at that, just a little. I pull them up, and he's dead weight. Fortunately, I have plenty of experience handling male dead weight, and I have no issue getting him dressed again.

I climb over into the driver's seat and adjust it, marveling at the luxury of the vehicle. Fucking money, this thing. I rev the engine—it's been tuned. Nothing stock sounds like that, not even the highest-end luxury hand-built motor.

I avoid thinking about what just happened…until I'm back on the freeway. It's after one in the morning, so the freeway is mostly abandoned, a few cars zipping past as I bring this monster up to speed. A touch of the pedal and we're at ninety. Fuck me, this thing is magic.

It's heavy, though—I can feel the weight of it.

The huge touchscreen infotainment center displays navigation—a blue line indicating my route; the display tells me we have three hours left in the drive. I check my mirrors, happily noting the absence of anyone on our tail, for now.

Finally, settling in for the drive, I let myself reflect.

I like sucking cock. Sue me, okay? I like the power of it. I like how stupid men get when you're done. I like…well, everything about the act. But when a man is well-endowed, clean, attractive, and a halfway decent dude? I like giving pleasure. I like seeing him enjoy what I'm doing.

Saxon? Well. He's a whole different topic.

That shit was…there are no words. His cock is utterly perfect. Just big enough—because, yes, there's such a thing as too big, although that's as subjective as anything else—perfectly shaped, mostly straight with a slight inward curve. A plump, fat juicy head, thick shaft ripping with veins. He's a grower, not a shower, which I also prefer. His balls are tight, taut, and heavy, a good handful.

Talk about responsiveness, though. Fuck. Every touch, everything I did, he responded like it was the best thing he's ever felt. His hands in my hair? So fucking hot. When I finally made him come, he still maintained control over his hands, gripping my hair and my head with his huge strong powerful hands, but not forcing me. Encouraging, helping, holding, but not controlling. Perfect. He was clean. Smelled amazing. Even his cum tasted better than any other.

I glance at him in the rearview—that scar is so wicked, so scary. I wonder how he got it. It almost took his eye.

Asleep, he's still rough, hard, intimidating—frightening even—but despite all that, he's also absolutely, devastatingly beautiful. All hard, sharp lines, rugged angles, devilishly perfect.

He scares me.

Not because he's a confessed killer—I've known them. He's different—there's good intrinsic to his soul that I don't think he even sees. No, what scares me is that I crave him, already. Right now. I want more. I want to pull the car over and get him hard and suck him off all over again, just to enjoy the beauty of him, the intensity of him, the power in him. His vulnerability slew me, left me shaking. Aching for him.

I see his secrets. I know the shape of them, if not the details. He thinks he's hiding his demons, but I see them. His worth, his view of himself—those are his demons.

I have my own, but I've had Emily to help me along the way. Tommy. Even Yates. They're good friends. But Em? She's never let me fall into the trap of self-loathing. She builds me up, shakes me out of my stupid feelings, and forces me to face my shit.

I don't think Saxon has ever had that.

Well…now he does. That's what scares me. What if he won't let me in? What if this shitstorm we're in is too big? What if he dies? What if he can't open up?

Fuck, so many questions, and no answers, just risk.

Risk of heartbreak, when my heart is already tattered and ripped and torn, pieced together and taped and glued into fractal, kaleidoscopic shards whose edges will never quite line up correctly.

See, a secret only Em knows about me is that I fall hard and fast for people. When I met Em, I knew within five minutes of talking to her that we would be best friends and soul mates. I actually met Tommy first, at a party. He was wasted and needed a babysitter, but his friends had all ditched him, so he was wandering around the kegger spilling beer on himself and trying like hell to seem cool. He was obviously out of his element—it was a real rager, with debauchery in every corner and gnarly fistfights breaking out frequently, taking place in the back of an automotive junkyard in a seriously bad part of town. I took pity on the poor bastard, hung out with him and talked to him, mainly to keep him from getting rolled and left for dead in a ditch somewhere—everyone knew better than to fuck with me, not because I'm so scary or intimidating but because of who I knew.

I realized within about sixty seconds of hanging out with Tom that he was a one-of-a-kind person. Genuine, compassionate, funny, attractive in a clean-cut, good-side-of-town, middle-class kind of way, grounded… everything I'm not. A good influence on Emily, who, despite coming from a similar background to Tom, has a predilection for bad choices. I fixed them up, and the rest is history.

I fell for Travis in exactly twenty seconds—I was doing jumping lunges on a Tabata protocol, and he absolutely smoked me. But he didn't make me feel bad about it, just challenged me to hit the next set even harder…

Fucking Travis Goddamned Asshole Larimer, who irreparably shattered my heart and soul.

Fucking Travis. The vile bastard had the gall to get himself killed before I could Lorena Bobbitt him my-own-goddamn-self.

I look down at the speedometer and realize I'm going nearly a hundred miles per hour. I back off until I'm only going eighty-five and set the cruise control—which, it turns out, is one of those fancy cruise controls that's like a baby version of autopilot. Freaky, but cool.

I try not to think about Travis. No point, usually. He did what he did, and I survived it. He's dead, and I'm alive.

I'm fucked up because of what he did to me…well, more fucked up than I already was. He was just the last in a long line of asshole men who deserve to have their dicks chopped off and fed to them. But what makes what Trav did to me worse than the others is that I loved him, I trusted him—I fucking told him what I'd been through and he still did it to me.

If anything, knowing what I'd already been through seemed to make him enjoy what he did all the more. He was a clinically diagnosed sadistic psychopath, you see. But, true to form, he hid his diagnosis, lied about it, and lured me in with his glib charm and All-American Boy Next Door good looks.

He lured me in—what a great analogy. He had a juicy worm, too. Complete with a hidden hook, barbed and vicious.

Fucking Travis.

My skull feels two sizes too small, suddenly. My chest hurts, squeezed by red-hot iron bands which constrict and crush. I can't breathe.

The powerful engine roars, and the road flashes by. My vision blurs, so I can't see the road or make out the speedometer. All I can do is grip the steering wheel and try to hold it straight and tell myself I'm not dying, I'm not having a heart attack, it's just panic. Just panic. It'll pass.

It's not passing.

My foot is mashed to the floor, and the wheel is shaking in my hands.

"Hey, hey now." A low, deep, rough, soothing sound—gentle words in my ear. "Breathe in."

Hands on my hands. Hot breath in my ear.

I can't breathe in. Can't breathe out. Lungs burn and ache. I can't let go of the wheel. Can't move my foot.

"Just a little sip of air. Pull it in through your lips. Just a little bit."

All I manage is a shrill keening whimper. His hands on mine are strong and gentle.

"Let's try again, Terra. Remind yourself where you are. You're here, in this car with me. Feel my hands on yours? They're real. I'm real. Look out the window. What do you see?"

"D-dark. It's dark." My voice is harsh and tight.

"Yeah, honey, it's dark." Lips on my earlobe. Breath on the side of my neck—in and out, in and out, slow, even, regular. "Feel my breath?"

"F-feel. Feel it."

"Good. Try to match me." In, and out. In, and out. "One breath, just one."

I fight for it. Everything I am is fighting me, tight, constricted, coiled, tense, resisting me. But I'm no quitter. I'm a survivor, and I never, ever give up.

I manage a sip of oxygen. It burns my throat, but it loosens my lungs the tiniest bit.

"Good, Terra, very good. Try again. Another one. Just a little breath in."

The wheel shakes and shudders in my hands. The engine screams and roars.

I fight for a breath. Manage a gasp of sweet, blessedly cool air, loosening the vise around my chest a little more.

"Good, very good. Do it again, Terra. Another little breath in."

I exert my will, force my lungs to inflate—it's like sucking a thick milkshake through a cocktail straw. But, slowly, through a concentrated effort, I manage a full breath.

"Good girl, now hold it."

My vision clears, a little. The iron bands loosen and cool a touch.

"Let it out, nice and slow." His voice is in my ear, his hands on mine. He breathes out through his lips as if blowing out a candle, and I mimic him. "And in again, nice and slow. Count to eight, if you can."

Air in my lungs is like coming alive. The cocktail straw expands into a drinking straw and the milkshake thins. My vision coalesces and the pounding in my skull dulls to a throb.

"Now, hold the air in. Count to seven again. With me. Ready? one…two…three…four…five…six…seven. Now imagine you have a birthday cake in front of you—a big chocolate cake with a bunch of candles on it, all lit and flickering. Try to blow them out for me. Blow out all the candles, Terra."

It's no longer an effort of will to draw in air, no longer requires concentration to exhale.

The speedometer reads 115.

I yank my foot off the accelerator, and the Range Rover slows. Coasts. Stops. We're in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by darkness, the only light the stars and moon and a distant white point of light from a farmhouse in the distance.

Saxon's hand shifts the vehicle into Park, and as if that was some kind of signal, my whole body just…snaps. Melts. Dissolves.

Suddenly, I'm hiccupping, sobbing, gasping—full-on ugly crying.

There are no thoughts in my brain, or maybe there are too many swirling too fast to catch any of them, a billion emotions howling inside like a tornado.

My door opens, and a hand unbuckles the seatbelt. Hands slide under my thighs and around my shoulders, lifting me bodily out from behind the wheel. Cool night air irradiates my lunges and bathes my skin.

Movement. Crickets sing. Feet crunch on gravel. I'm lowered to the ground.

My face meets a towering wall of male chest—I smell sweat and cologne and deodorant. Warmth. His arms wrap around me, and instead of feeling trapped and imprisoned and claustrophobic, I feel…

Safe.

I think that's the feeling, at least. It's new. Unfamiliar.

His lips brush my hairline above my temple, his nose inhaling my scent as if breathing in the finest perfume. I'm on his lap, cradled in his arms like a child, sobbing against his chest. I feel snot dribbling from my nose, but can't do anything about it.

He doesn't say a single goddamn syllable. Doesn't shush me, doesn't tell me it's gonna be okay, doesn't ask what's wrong.

He just holds me.

How long do I sob? It feels like maybe ten or fifteen minutes, but it could be more. After a while, the sobs quiet into sniffles and slow tears.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Stuff your apology up your ass, Terra." He sounds angry.

I pull away and look up at him. "I…"

He pushes out a ragged breath. "I wanna fuckin' murder whoever hurt you."

"I…it was…it's not—" Fuck, where do I even start?

"Only reason people have panic attacks that fuckin' bad is because someone else caused us pain—unimaginable fuckin' agony."

"You knew what was happening."

"Yeah."

"How?"

"Camilla had 'em."

"You said you only fucked her once."

"I did. I watched her for fuckin months, though. She had this friend, Ellis. Gay dude. Weird as fuck, wore frilly dresses and high heels one day and suit and tie the next, and sometimes he'd mix it up, wear a skirt and heels with a man's suit coat and tie. But he loved the shit outta Camilla. She'd have these gnarly fuckin' panic attacks—like the one you just had. Couldn't breathe, paralyzed, felt like she was gonna die. She got to the point where she could feel it coming and would text a single exclamation point to Ellis and he'd drop what he was doing and come to her, and he'd talk her out of it. It was remarkable, how he did it. Stayed calm, and just talked her through it. Brought her back to herself. I was always amazed how he fuckin' could just…magic her out of it."

"Saxon, I…"

He runs a thumb under my eye, the other. Ghosts his damp thumb over my temple. "Ain't gotta say shit, Terra. You don't owe me an explanation and you sure as fuck don't owe me a goddamn apology."

"I could have gotten us both killed. I was going 115."

"We hit 145, actually."

"And I couldn't fucking see, Saxon."

"You weren't being reckless—you were having a panic attack. And the only reason you were driving in the first place is because I fuckin' passed out."

"You hadn't slept in how long?" I ask.

"Almost four days. No fuckin' excuse."

"It kind of is." I fight to get my snark back. "And I like to think maybe I had a little hand—or mouth, as the case may be—in your passing out."

He huffs a laugh, breath hot and sudden on my scalp. "Terra, I…" he shakes his head. "Yeah, I can't deny that. You sucked me off so fuckin' hard I passed out."

"Told you I could suck a marble through a straw."

"More like suck man's soul out through his cock. Without a doubt, the most mind-altering experience of my life. And I've done LSD."

I cackle. "Okay, well that's probably a bit of an exaggeration, but thanks for the flattery."

"It's the truth, babe."

I'm feeling a little uncomfortable now, for some reason. "It was just a blow job, Saxon."

His thumb tucks up under my chin and nudges upward until I have to either look at him or close my eyes. Since my eyes are still red-rimmed and brimming with tears, and my nose is probably gooey with snot, I opt for closed eyes.

"Terra."

I shake my head. "Don't."

"Look at me."

"No." I sniffle—yep, definitely snotty and ugly.

He wipes my nose with his sleeve, and then my eyes again with his thumbs—so gently, so softly it should be impossible for such a rough, violent man.

"Fine. Don't look at me. But that shit was not just a blow job. You and I both know it, babe."

"Then what was it?" I ask, feeling my snark return in the face of seriousness and vulnerability.

"I dunno. You tell me."

"That's what I'm saying. It was just a BJ."

"So, you weren't trying to prove anything to me."

"Nope."

"You weren't trying to get under my skin."

"Nope. Just in your pants."

A long silence follows. "In the ranks of The Cabal, the rewards scale up as you rise. Starting out, Si and I were errand boys. Messengers. Lackeys. We did the dirty work, but not the violent dirty work, the actual dirty work. Deliver food to the lieutenants, take messages too sensitive for phones or whatever. Clean toilets. Clean up after parties. Make sure hookers got paid. We got paid for the work, but the only reward was the money."

"Okay?" I'm not sure where he's going with this, but I can't deny I'm interested.

"Then we got promoted to grunts. When a hit went down, we were the guys in the backseat of the SUV spraying with Uzis. Front of the line—first to die, last to get paid. No training, just disposable resources. The pay was better—high five figures a year, plus we'd get a tiny cut of drugs and access to the women."

"The women?" I ask.

"The Cabal is heavily involved in sex work. And yeah, that includes human trafficking. Silas and I…it made us sick. We avoided those details if we could. But mostly it means brothels and escorts. High-end shit." He shrugs. "Access to women meant we were allowed to avail ourselves of the women, of which there was a fuck-ton, all the time. Cabal soldiers and higher-ups and such like to party: work hard, play hard, right? So, hookers were everywhere. As long as you paid, grunts could be part of the fun. We didn't make enough that we could afford the girls too often, because like I said, Cabal doesn't run cheap girls and grunts make shit, comparatively speaking…I'm talking five grand for a night, at least, baseline."

I roll my eyes. "I know what escorts make, Saxon." At his sudden silence, I laugh. "No, not because I was one. I thought about it, though, and almost became one. But the dressmaking took off at just the right moment, and I didn't. I knew a bunch of them, though."

"You familiar with Starry Night Engagements?" He asks.

I freeze. "Yeah. My friend Suze worked for them. She was the one who told me I'd make serious bank with them."

"Be glad you didn't. It's a Cabal operation. The girls make bank, yeah, and a lot of them do end up able to retire from the business after a few years. But they're the lucky ones. Others…not so much."

"I know what happens to the unlucky ones," I murmur. "All too well."

"Well, anyway. I do have a point with all this."

"Carry on, then," I say, ignoring the fact that I'm terribly, scarily, worrisomely comfortable just settled and cozy in Saxon's arms, on his lap, cheek against his chest.

"Once you get promoted to soldier, you go through training. It's fuckin' brutal. Like Marine Corps Basic but without the guidelines or restrictions on what they can do or say to you. It's brutal. But the pay is scaled, so you get more money, like six figures to start, plus the perks…the perks are the real good stuff. You get a key of whatever drug you want each month. Free. Just a perk. You drink for free at any Cabal-owned bar or club. And you get a coin. It's brass when you first make soldier. Means you get one night a month free at any brothel or with any escort. Rank up, it's bronze, two nights. Rank up again, silver—seven days." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a metallic coin about the size of a silver dollar; I take it, and it's remarkably light.

"That's palladium," he says. "It's an all-access pass. Gives the bearer anything he wants across any Cabal business."

I examine the coin; it features three words in what I believe to be Latin: " Morituri te salutant ."

"Anything? Unlimited?" I ask, flipping it over; the reverse side features a complicated logo comprised of a diamond within a rectangle, the diamond broken up into a pair of triangles, one upside right and the other upside down—mirrored basically—and then within each of those another reversed triangle, the whole creating a geometric impression of an hourglass.

He hums an affirmative. "Unlimited. Only a handful of others exist like it."

"And what's your point in showing me this?"

He doesn't answer for a moment. "I never used it. I never needed to. Never wanted to. I don't do drugs, except the occasional joint. And I never liked the idea of taking advantage of the working women by exercising my privilege of freebies."

"That's noble of you, Saxon, but I still don't—"

"Working women were the only kind I ever knew, for that whole period of my life. I never took freebies, I always paid them their worth. Eventually, I developed a sort of…relationship, I suppose, with a few of them. Rachel, Kayla, Abigail, and Susanna. Suze. Your friend, I think. Small world, right? Well…I'd do them favors. Little things. Rachel had a kid, and I'd deliver presents to him for her—she was keeping him hidden from the Cabal. Kayla had a drug problem, and I helped her stay sober so she could get out of the business. Abigail was saving her money to start a bakery, and I'd help her with the money stuff, investing and saving and such. Suze…" He trails off.

"Suze had a brother and sister she was taking care of. She said she had a guardian angel who made sure they had food and got to school when she couldn't." My nose tingles and my eyes sting. "That was you?"

"Guardian angel…fuck that shit." He sounds so bitter. "They wouldn't take my money so I found ways of paying them back for the…services…they provided."

"I see." I try to find the thread connecting this to where it started—me blowing him.

"I cared about them. They were good girls given the shit end of the stick in life, just trying to make it. We talked. I liked talking to them, liked being around people who weren't…like me, or worse: killers, addicts, assholes, and fuckin'…just the scum of the earth. But they knew my bosses and theirs were keeping tabs on them, and me. They were working girls. Their time was money. So I couldn't just hang out with them. It had to be work. But they were my only…relief from the life I was living."

I think I see where this is going. "And you didn't feel right fucking them, so…"

"They'd go down on me." He sounds…tense.

"So you're an expert in receiving head, is what you're saying?" I hate how bitter I sound.

"No." he brushes his thumb over my lips. "I'm saying I know very goddamn well the difference between doing that because you feel like you have to or as just part of the process of gettin' it on, and…when it means something."

"That's a fucked-up story to tell a girl, Saxon," I say, my voice wryly amused. "Especially as a way of telling me you liked it."

"I struggled with letting you," he says. "You fuckin'…you turn me on like…like nothing I've ever felt, like no one I've ever met. But I've got a fucked-up relationship with sex."

"It was just a blowjob," I insist. "I have a fucked-up relationship with sex, too, Saxon, and I'm telling you, it was just a blowjob. I did it because I wanted to. I like you. You turn me on. All the shooting and shit, maybe it's scrambled my emotions or some shit, I dunno. The adrenaline, or whatever. But I…you went down on me, and holy fuck, you know what you're doing. And then you did it again, and…" I trail off.

Sigh. Start over. "We've got something between us, Saxon. I don't know what it is or what it means, or…I don't fucking know. It's intense and happened fuckin' fast." I shake my head, rolling it against his chest. "I wanted to make you feel as good you made me feel. I wanted…I guess I wanted to feel like…like I've got something on you. Something you want, something you'll remember. So yeah, I used every trick I know to make it as good as I fuckin' could, so if this whole fuckin' thing goes south, at least you'll have that."

He doesn't respond for a while. "When you say, if this thing goes south…" he pauses. "You mean you and me not working out, or one or both of us getting killed?"

I bark a laugh. "Both. I dunno."

"Fair enough." He traces a finger over my temple and behind my ear, a tender, affectionate touch that makes my heart twist and burn with unfamiliar heat. "Why wouldn't it work out between us?"

"Why would it? We're both supremely fucked up."

"Maybe that's why it will. Like recognizes like. Maybe we get each other in a way no one else can, and that's why it feels so intense so fast."

"You believe in love, Saxon?" I ask.

"Not till recently."

"What happened to change your mind?"

"Saw it happen to my brothers—not my actual biological brothers, my brothers in the Broken Arrows."

"Broken Arrows?" I query.

He stands up with me, going from sitting with me on his lap to standing up with me in his arms like a groom carrying his bride over a threshold.

Bad fuckin' analogy—weddings make me itchy as a general rule.

"Later. We gotta get back on the road."

Turns out we were sitting on the ground, facing a huge field dotted with clusters of cows; he was sitting with his back to the tire. He carries me to the front passenger door, which is still open. He bends and sets me on the seat, reaches across to buckle me in. Moves to withdraw from the opening, but I catch his jaw.

"Hey," I whisper. His green eyes scorch with heat, with intensity, with a whirlwind of feelings I cannot translate or parse. "Thank you."

His Adam's apple bobs. "Yeah. Course."

"No. Don't minimize it. No one's ever…" I swallow hard. "Just…thank you."

For a moment, he nuzzles his face into my palm, eyes fluttering closed. "I've…" his eyes stay closed, head dropping as if suddenly too heavy. "I get them. Sometimes. It's fuckin' hell on earth, fightin' through that shit alone."

"Yeah, it is." I cup the rugged, sharp line of his jaw and tilt his face to mine. "So, like I said, don't minimize what you did for me."

"Okay, Terra."

"I like how you say my name," I whisper.

"Terra." His breath is hot on my lips. Close. "So fuckin' beautiful."

Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

I'm tumbling into a void, freefalling down an endless well, and he's the walls all around me, the sky above me, the darkness beneath me.

Lips touch lips, breath tangles with breath. Our first kiss, way back earlier this evening, was a wrecking ball smashing through my fucking soul, smashing apart everything in its path—namely, all previous kisses.

This?

This kiss is a rip current. I'm being sucked under and pulled out to the Saxon Sea.

His lips are soft and powerful, his tongue smooth and insistent and hot and searching, and I don't want to breathe, don't want to come up for air, don't want to swim parallel to the shore—I don't want to escape this rip current.

I cradle the stubble on his jaw, clutch him to me, fusing my mouth with his and delving into the kiss with all that I am.

How can I not?

It's not every day a former assassin with the body of a golden god kisses the very soul out of your body.

His knee sinks into the seat between my thighs, dipping me forward. His fingers steal into my hair, stutter along my scalp, and god, god, god, his touch is like magic, sizzling into my core, igniting me from the inside out. His other hand cups my cheek, and fuck, he's kissing me as if he never wants to stop. Never intends to stop.

I don't want him to.

I curl my hand around the back of his neck, up his nape, against the back of his head, and with my other I grip the back of his thigh, pull him closer. His ass is carved out of pure marble. His broad, hard back is hot to the touch through his thin dress shirt. Touch him everywhere I can reach—his cliff-like shoulders, thick biceps, narrow waist. Under the hem of his shirt, over the ridges of his abs. God, his abs. Yeah, I'm a shallow girl, a sucker for a killer set of abs.

I could kiss him forever.

He pulls away first, growling. "God fucking dammit, woman." He goes in for more, clawing a handful of my hair into a knotted grip that makes my pussy clench and my nipples ache. Pulls away again. "Your fuckin' mouth, Terra. It's every fuckin' drug on the planet, and then some. Fuckin' addictive." He bites my lower lip. "Especially now that I know how it feels wrapped around my cock."

The moment is ruined by the pop of a gunshot and Saxon grunting in pain and shock.

He surges over me, curling into the car on top of me, yanking the door closed, his hard weight suddenly crushing me. The pops and bangs of gunfire are immediately muffled, but the cracks and smacks of the rounds hitting the armored SUV are deafening and terrifying.

The rear glass is pocked and spiderwebbed. Saxon scrambles over the console and into the driver's seat, shifting into gear and moving the accelerator to the floor. The heavy SUV rockets forward, the tuned V8 responding beautifully. And then the turbos kick in, boost spooling up and releasing, smashing us back into the seat. I twist and look behind us—a big black SUV is behind us, and falling up away swiftly, hopelessly outmatched by whatever monstrosity of an engine this thing is running.

The freeway curves and Saxon takes the curve with the accelerator on the floor.

"Hold on," he snaps.

I grip the oh-shit bar, tighten my seatbelt, and brace as he takes an exit—he taps the brakes and hauls on the wheel, and we scream around the exit ramp at sixty-something miles per hour, the body rolling sickeningly, but holding to the road by some miracle.

The light at the end of the exit is red, but there's no traffic, so Saxon doesn't slow or stop, just blasts right through the intersection on a sharp left turn. It's a tiny rural Massachusetts town, little more than a McDonald's, a grocery store, a dollar store, and a few dive bars. A single traffic light blinks yellow. The nav system is chattering at Saxon, admonishing him to make a U-turn. To turn left in a quarter of a mile. He ignores the nav and hauls ass down the two-lane road out of the town and onto a non-descript two-lane highway through nowhere, from nowhere, and to nowhere. At least, that's how it seems to a city girl like me.

I glance behind us. "I don't see them."

He doesn't slow down. "Keep watching."

I glance behind us every few seconds, but no headlights appear. He whips a right turn at a four-way intersection, for once following the GPS's direction. After a few miles, he takes a left, and then another right puts us on an on-ramp onto the freeway again, where he finally eases off the accelerator until we slow to a legal speed.

Saxon leans forward. "How bad is it?"

There's a big spreading crimson stain on the white of his shirt, low on his back near his right side. I lift the hem carefully—not carefully enough because he hisses as the shirt unsticks from the bloody wound. I dab the area with the hem.

"Not too bad," I report. "Creased you. Stitches, maybe." I lean and twist and unbutton his shirt. "Come on, off with it."

He shrugs out of it—fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck me. He's absolutely jacked and shredded. I've never met a man built like him. And his skin is littered with scars. Bullet holes, cuts, burns. Other scars with less obvious provenance.

"Knife?" I ask.

He digs in his pocket and produces a pocketknife. I use it to cut the sleeves off and tie them together and then cut a big swatch which I fold several times. I place the makeshift patch over the wound and tie it in place with the tied-together sleeves. Not great, but better than nothing and the best we're gonna get with no medical supplies.

"You've done that before," Saxon remarks.

"A few times, yeah." I glance at him. "So. Why did your father have an armored car?"

Saxon laughs. "I actually have no idea. He was a raging bastard, but I don't think he had any enemies willing to kill him…other than my brothers and I, at least." He shrugs. "He was a collector and had more money than he knew what to do with, so he probably ordered it just to say he had it because nothing screams ‘tasteless display of wealth' like turning a Range Rover Autobiography SV into an armored car with a twin-turbocharged V8."

"A tuned twin-turbocharged V8," I correct. "That fucker in there has been bored out at least. Something this heavy moving that fucking fast is not normal, at fucking all."

He just shrugs. "Sure. Cars aren't my thing."

"You picked a good one to run from the bad guys in, though, that's for damn sure." I fold the knife and return it to him. "So. Broken Arrows?"