“Sticking with me.”
I laugh softly. I don’t even know why I do, but I’m at ease in his presence. I can’t remember the last time I laughed—let alone smiled.
“If we’re in agreement, I’m going to need to know a couple of things,” he says.
“Such as?”
“Who’s after you?”
I shake my head. “I can’t say.”
His jaw ticks. “I need to know what I’m up against.”
“They’re dangerous.”
“So am I.”
I laugh again, giggling around a mouthful of crispy bacon.
“What?” he asks, the corner of his lips ticking up into a grin.
“Sorry, that was just… so badass but also kinda corny?”
“I’ll be sure to work on my delivery.” Zane turns slightly in his seat to look at me directly. “Seriously. I need to know exactly what kind of trouble you’re in. Did you steal something from these people? Are they an organized group, or just a couple of angry men?”
“You seem awfully convincedthey’rethe bad guys. What if I’m some serial killer who murdered their families, and now they’re seeking vengeance?”
The smile that stretches across his lips knocks the air from my lungs.
“Are you?” he asks. “A serial killer.”
It’s like he can see straight through me. I’ve never felt more exposed. All my life, people have treated me as an object—something without agency or thought. My father always said I was to be seen, never heard. Now that someone is actively listening to me, my nervous heart is going through a loop.
“No,” I grumble. “I’m not a serial killer. But I can’t tell you who they are.”
He sighs. “Can you at least tell me why you’re running?” His expression darkens. “You said you’d kill yourself if you had to go back. Tell me why.”
“Did I say that?” I genuinely can’t remember. I might have said a lot of things in the heat of the moment.
“Willow.”
I look deeply into his eyes. His concern is almost touching, but I have to be careful about how much I say. I know Zane wants to help, but the less he knows the better. The more he knows about Esteban and the Becerra Cartel, the bigger the target on his back.
“I was supposed to get married,” I say. “But I… got cold feet. My would-be fiancé has sent some of his, um,friendsto bring me home.”
It’s a load of crap, and I can tell he knows it. I thank the stars above when he doesn’t push any further.
“How far away do you need to get?” he asks me.
“Ideally? A different country entirely.”
“Do you have a passport?”
I shake my head. “I left in a hurry.”
Zane polishes off his coffee and sets the mug on the table. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. “I can help you with that,” he says eventually. “But you’re going to have to stay with me from here on out.
“You want me to stay with you?” I ask, flustered at the thought. I’ve never been allowed to interact with men before. My father always made sure a maid was in the room with me at all times—probably because I was always a flight risk, but also because he didn’t want any of the guards to get the wrong idea. The prospect of sharing a room with a man I’ve only just met is daunting.