Page 24

Halfway through my sandwich, I slow down and try to savor it. I sip my coffee, which is the perfect strength and sweetness, and I watch the view slide past.

When I’m finished, I crumple up the wrappers and look around sadly.

That was the most delicious breakfast I’ve ever eaten. I miss it already.

But it’s not all gone. Zevran’s cinnamon roll is still on the center console, unattended and possibly unwanted. Unwanted by Zevran, that is. I’m coveting it in a way that should have an eleventh commandment written about it.

“I see you eyeing my cinnamon roll,” Zevran says to the road ahead, the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

My gaze snaps away. “I’m not.”

“You can have it, printsessa.”

“I don’t want it.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

I stare out the window, seeing not the landscape but a beautiful, fluffy cinnamon roll with a soft, sugar-soaked center. If no one eats it, it won’t fulfill its destiny as a delicious breakfast treat. The bun will turn cold and stale, and isn’t that a crime against the pastry gods?

My willpower cracks in half a second. “You sure you don’t want it?”

“It’s all yours.”

I practically snatch up the roll and sink my teeth into the warm dough.

Zevran smiles in satisfaction at the road ahead, the cold monster from earlier completely vanished behind those pale eyes. “Good girl.”

That’s the second time he’s called me that today. I tell myself I don’t like his tone, or the way he uses it like a reward, but as warm and rich as the center of this cinnamon roll is, that low rumble of praise does something to my chest that’s twice as delicious, and ten times more dangerous.

A green sign slides past the window as I finish the last bite. Cities and distances. At the top is a place called Coldlake, just seventeen miles away. At the bottom, I’m shocked to see that we’re still two hundred miles from Corvale.

I must gasp out loud, because Zevran’s eyes flick to me. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re farther from home than I realized.”

A long pause, and then his voice shifts into something darker. “Do you remember how you got into that basement?”

I shake my head, pulling my arms in tight. “I was shoved in the back of a van and drugged. Things were confusing for a while, and when I woke up properly, I was lying on a dirty mattress in the dark.”

Zevran takes a deep breath, his knuckles turning white as his hands clamp down on the steering wheel. He mutters something under his breath in Russian.

I’ve spent years learning to read male anger. The subtle set of a jaw, the ominous stillness before the storm. But for once, this rage doesn’t feel aimed at me, and the realization makes me brave enough to speak up.

“What did you say?”

Instead of answering, he slams his foot on the gas and aggressively swerves to overtake a semitruck. The sudden acceleration and the violent lane change knocks my left arm into the console. White-hot pain explodes up my shoulder. A ragged cry tears out of my throat.

His eyes cut to me instantly, full of panic, before snapping back to the road. “Shit. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I gasp through clenched teeth, cradling my throbbing wrist against my chest as hot tears brim on my lashes. It hurts so bad I want to sob aloud, but I bite my lip and hold it in.

“I’m sorry,” he grates out.

I don’t reply. If he were really sorry, he’d do what I asked and drop me off at the nearest gas station instead of dragging me back to Corvale.

Zevran’s jaw flexes as though he heard my thoughts. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

Another sign flashes past: Coldlake, Next Exit. He glares at the green board, a dark decision crystallizing behind his eyes.