Christ, what the hell has this fucker done to her head?
“You’re not fucking payment. I took you away from there because I thought you needed help—and you do. If you get out of this car now, nothing will happen to Milo. But it’s dark and late. You have nothing with you, and I’m assuming nowhere to go.”
“I live with Milo.” She cradles her arms across her stomach, a shiver racing through her.
“Do you want to go back there to him, or do you want to take control—take back who you are?” I ask her. She can choose to get away from that life, but it has to be hers.
The silence sits heavily between us. I don’t want to take her back to him. There’s a pull inside me telling me she needs a chance, opportunity for more.
I shouldn’t give a fuck—millions of girls out there are treated like dirt, and I can’t save them all—but she’s here, and I can help her if she lets me. My mother’s image snaps into my brain like shards of glass, stabbing, cutting, bleeding. She was sixteen when she had me, twenty-one when her pimp beat her to death. I don’t even remember her face, but her story haunts me. I went through the system, saw how some of the girls are abused and sold by authorities who’re supposed to protect them, put them somewhere safe to be loved and taken care of. Half the time, the foster homes are worse than where they come from. The system is fucked.
“So… I can come to your place?” she finally asks.
“Yes,” I sigh, relieved. “Spend the night. Tomorrow, we’ll figure shit out.”
She swallows, then nods, determination lighting her eyes. “Okay.”
Okay. Let’s do this.
Six
Willa
Words from inside the car keep rolling around my mind. “No one owns you.”
It’s been such a long time since anyone has spoken to me—not at me. My instincts are to obey, obligated to pay my brother’s debt, but that’s not what this man wants. He said I’m free if I choose to be.
Can I really make it on my own? Is this my chance to see life outside of my brother’s cage?
Gabe pulls down a long driveway. A beautiful wooden house comes into view beneath a canopy of large trees. It’s at least twice, maybe three times, the size of the one I live in, surrounded by fields, no other houses visible.
“I’m still working on it,” he informs me. Partly built buildings sit just to the back of the property, extending the impressive size. “The garage is still under construction.” He cuts the engine and gets out, coming around to open my door for me. “But the main rooms are finished,” he rambles.
When he came barreling through the door of Milo’s office, I was breathless and frozen in confusion and shame, but despite that, it felt like I knew this man, a internal pull toward him I can’t quite figure out, but it was telling me that things were going to change. When I noticed the patch on the other man, I thought I would die in that small office along with my brother. Royal Bastards were well known in our world—and people you never wanted to owe anything to. It’s madness for Milo to be involved with them. He is mad.
The night air bites at my exposed skin, causing a shiver.
Gabe ushers me inside before I can take in my full surroundings. I find myself in a foyer type entrance. The décor is minimal. Some rooms don’t even have furniture. “Sorry about the lack of homey shit. I only moved in fully a couple months ago and have a lot to finish before I fill it with furniture.”
I nod. It’s weird that he cares what I think. Though, maybe he doesn’t and is just being polite. Even empty, the house is stunning, and nothing like I’m used to.
“You hungry?” he asks, quirking a brow.
I think about the question, trying to remember the last time I ate. The hunger pangs are something I’m used to. “Sure.” I clasp my hands together, unsure what I’m supposed to be doing.
Taking me through to the kitchen, he does this cute scrunching of his nose while tugging at his ear when he opens the fridge and sees it’s empty. Moving to a cupboard, he mumbles something under his breath, then points to basics: bread, sauce, pasta. I’m used to less.
“You’re welcome to anything you can find. There’s not much. I’m not home often enough to warrant buying things. I can order you something if you’d prefer.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I take a second to look him over.
Light brown hair effortlessly styled over his head. Neatly trimmed beard that makes him look older than I bet he is. There’s youthfulness in his eyes, but also life experience, the green deep and enchanting. I trace the circumference of his body. He looks strong, powerful. My mind reminds me of how he disarmed Milo with ease, manhandling him without breaking a sweat.