Page 23

I spat his own violence back in his face, and he shut down completely. Zevran hasn’t said a single word since we left the motel room. He hasn’t even looked at me. His face is a mask of cold, unreadable granite, his tattooed hands gripping tight to the steering wheel as he stares straight ahead.

I hate how much the coldness between us hurts. I hate that I felt a prickle of shame for snapping at him when he’d been holding me, but I couldn’t afford to forget who he was and why he took me from that basement in the first place. If he calls this Dragan—

A shiver goes through me.

If he makes that call, I’m a dead woman.

Ten minutes later, he steers the car off the highway and into a busy drive-through.

“We’ll have two of the breakfast combo meals, with double bacon on both. Two hash browns. A large black coffee and a—” Zevran turns away from the drive-through speaker and gives me a sharp, assessing look.

I would like to give him my coffee order, but I can’t. Why? Because the second we pulled up to the menu board, he reached across the console and clamped one of his massive hands tightly over my mouth.

I sit in the passenger seat of his car, silently fuming, my lips pressed against his warm palm.

“A large vanilla latte with an extra shot,” he says into the speaker. “And two of those cinnamon things. Yeah. That’s it.”

A vanilla latte. He read me like a book.

Zevran eases his car toward the window and slowly drops his hand.

“I don’t have to keep reminding you to keep your mouth shut, do I?” he asks conversationally, though the edge in his voice is as sharp as a razor. “I would hate to kill any of these fast-food workers because of you.”

He pulls open his jacket, just enough for me to see the gun holstered under his arm. My eyes fix upon the black grip. I recall the deafening crack of the gun being fired in the basement and the man crumpling to the ground. The ghost of his hand around my throat aches in my neck.

I shake my head.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, patting my thigh with a heavy, possessive hand. “I want my damn breakfast.”

My stomach chooses that exact moment to make an audible grumble that goes on way longer than it should.

The stony tension that held his jaw rigid for the last hour suddenly softens. He laughs, a short, genuine sound, and it’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh like that.

“Sounds like I’m not the only one. We need to get some food into you, printsessa.”

I press my hand into my hollow stomach, willing it to shut up. The fragrant, food-scented air alone is enough to have my mouth watering as I anticipate salty bacon, fried egg, and sweet, rich coffee. It’s been so long since I had a hot meal I could weep.

At the window, a teenage girl hands over the bag and the coffees with polite efficiency. I look at her. She doesn’t look at me. Zevran pays cash, says thank you, and pulls away.

And that’s that.

My one chance to plead to a stranger for help, and I sold myself out for a breakfast sandwich.

As Zevran places the warm food-filled paper bag on my lap, I eagerly open it, consoling myself with the reminder that if I had spoken up, Zevran probably would have shot the place up. I saved a teenager’s life. At least that’s what I tell myself as my hand closes around a warm, paper-wrapped sandwich.

When the scent hits me, I don’t care about anything else. I don’t care about being kidnapped twice, that my wrist is broken, or that the man beside me was glaring holes through the windshield ten minutes ago.

I half unwrap a brioche sandwich and pass it to Zevran without being asked. He takes it with a murmured thanks and eats one-handed while he drives. I unwrap mine, working awkwardly with just one hand, and take a bite. I close my eyes.

Bacon. Egg. Warm bread. Salt.

I could cry. I think I actually moan with pleasure.

“Damn, that’s good,” Zevran says, his breakfast propped against the steering wheel as he turns back onto the highway.

“You are not wrong,” I say around a mouthful of sandwich. Then I remember that I’m supposed to be giving him the silent treatment.

The cinnamon things turn out to be cinnamon rolls, still warm and gooey on the inside, and I put them on the console between us. We drive in silence and eat our breakfast, the morning light coming through the windshield at a low, golden angle, the ugly fight from the motel room slowly melting away.