She’d always been told she had silver eyes. They just looked colorless and gray to her. But his eyes were like that of a tiger, shimmering in hues of molten metallic gold.
They dipped, as though he couldn’t help himself, to chase the rise and fall of her breasts. When they returned, she was once again imprisoned in the magnetic beauty of his face.
From the clean, soapy scent wafting off him and the spotless appearance of his clothes, she assumed he hadn’t spent the past few hours in the desert heat like she had. A small part of her had hoped he’d been watching her from afar, growing sick with guilt over what he’d done to her.
But the formidable man who reclined on her tailgate didn’t care about her wellbeing. Instead, he glared at her like a stranger he wanted to murder.
“Tell me who you are, and this ends now.” The dangerous, silky tone of his words cut through the dense night air.
“You hate lies and insincerity because it goes against everything you believe.” She licked her chapped lips and rested a hip against the tailgate near his legs. “I’m known for my ability to keep secrets. It’s a fault, really. Foolish, most times. Because I’ll keep the truth to myself just to protect someone else’s feelings.”
“I don’t need anyone to protect my fucking feelings.”
“I’m not.” She held his impatient gaze. “I’m telling you who I am.”
“That’s—”
“You have an incredible heart and are always willing to help your friends and even people you don’t know, like all those innocent, enslaved girls. My heart, on the other hand, is subtle. I don’t show it or share it with anyone. Not anymore.”
Grabbing the gun and the water, he sat up, swung his powerfully muscled legs off the tailgate, and stood. Scowling down at her, he looked alarmingly tall, horrifyingly lethal, and unapologetically mean.
He was going to leave.
Without her.
She dropped the lantern and ran. Around the truck and to the driver’s door, she yanked it open and threw herself behind the steering wheel. The keys, her gun, water, food… She frantically searched the cab for something, anything that could save her.
Until a fist caught her hair and wrenched her out of the truck.
He tossed the water onto the seat and shoved the gun under her chin. “If you move, I’ll shoot and deal with the fallout of your copied emails. That option is shaking out to be a whole lot easier than playing your games.”
“This isn’t a game.” Her chin lifted above the press of the barrel. “I’ve known you for ten years, dammit. You’re important to me.”
He snarled and shoved her away with enough force to send her stumbling onto her back. Sharp rocks broke her fall, and she cried out in pain and frustration.
By the time she hobbled to her feet, he was already in the truck with the engine running.
“Don’t leave me.” She ran to the window and flattened a palm against the glass while yanking on the locked door. “Please, Tommy. I’m not tough or outdoorsy or equipped for this. I don’t know how to survive out here.”
He gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead, his jaw carved in stone.
“I won’t make it through the night. I need water and…” She lurched toward the back of the truck, keeping her hands on the metal side as if that could stop him wrenching away her lifeline.
A quick scan of the truck bed confirmed her supply of water had been removed. Flooded with fear, she pushed up to climb in.
He hit the gas. The tires spun up sand, and the vehicle bolted forward. She tried to hang on, but her fingers lost purchase, her palms sliding off the edge as he sped away.
“Tommy! Don’t leave!” She chased him, pumping her legs, heaving for air, and running as fast as she was physically able.
Until she twisted her ankle on a rock.
“Fuck!” A sob rose up, but she pushed through the agony, her eyes bleeding hot tears. “Tommy, wait! Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.”
She sprinted as the sound of the engine faded. She kept moving, limping, long after the taillights vanished over the hill. Then she fell.
Alone.
No water.
No food.
In the desert.
Three days.
She was fucked.
Rolling to her back, she lay in the sand and cried. The moon watched, pitiless, as she mourned her situation and every miserable second leading up to it.
He could’ve listened to her. Interrogated her. Tried to get to know her beyond a name and date of birth.
Instead, he chose to let her die.
He’d made his decision.
It hurt. Fucking hell, it hurt deep in her soul. But she’d put herself here. She’d known the risks.
She’d expected too much from him. The man who poured his heart into his emails kept those feelings close. He didn’t open up to his closest friends. Why did she think he’d open up to a stranger?