before we can get him to help—or you, if it comes to that. I think circumstances could keep either of us from helping him at all.”
She shoved past him. “I think I’m going to be true to myself right up until something prevents it,” she said, walking right up to the dog. “How about you?”
He looked away from her for what seemed like a very long time. When he could talk again, he said, “I think you’re right.”
Gwen washed her hands in the nasty sink and tried to pretend she couldn’t see them shaking.
She wasn’t very successful.
It hadn’t been hard to release the dog. He was chained so closely to the wall that they were in no danger, and Mac’s strong hands pushed down the trap springs with brutal efficiency to free the animal.
Gwen had pretended she wasn’t crying, but that only lasted until the dog tried desperately to lick her even though she was out of reach.
And then she’d left him, and washed her hands, and said to Mac, “Let’s get this over with.”
It was a surprise when he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the handcuffs. Surprise enough that she just blinked at him, her hands dripping over the sink.
“Here,” he said, a gruff tone in his voice. Embarrassed, she might have said. She gave her hands a hasty swipe along her shirt and took the cuffs, if only to spare him the moment.
Except she then gave his horribly battered wrists a pointed look. “But...”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “If I get through this, it won’t matter. The blade will deal with it. If I don’t get through this...it won’t matter.”
Okay then. “Where—”
“Anywhere,” he said, closing his eyes—closing her out, or maybe closing himself in.
The visible ripple of pain through his body answered that one.
Which is how Gwen found herself prowling around the stark, worn little rooms, kicking aside an empty box here or there, wrinkling her nose at the filth of it all. One room startled her with gleaming new office furniture, a couch, and a flat-screen television and wet bar.
The minion hangout. Nothing so prosaic for the man who owned them.
No, she knew his room when she saw it—when she found Mac in the doorway staring at it. A quiet, starkly clean Zen space of a single sleek-shaped metal chair, a large cushion on the floor. A huge U-bolt set into the corner.
“He doesn’t want any distractions,” Mac said quietly.
She didn’t ask him how he would know. She just asked, “This is the place?”
“There’s an irony to it,” Mac said, with that lift at the corner of his mouth.
Gwen muttered a distinct suggestion about what irony could do to itself and handed the cuffs back to him. “I’m here,” she said, “but I think this is something you need to do.”
Without a word, he took the cuffs—and her hands with them. Just when she thought he’d ravage her with a kiss to end all kisses, he wrapped his arms around her, so desperately tight it almost surpassed comfort, and buried his face in her neck and hair, breathing raggedly in her ear.
“Shh,” she found herself saying. “I’ll be here.”
Eventually he released her, pulling back just enough to offer her that kiss—tender and sweet and grieving. “Yeah,” he said, a strained voice. “I know. That’s who
“If this goes bad,” Gwen said, lifting her chin, “I know exactly what I’ll do.”
And she did.
Gwen stood in silence as Mac crouched at the corner, securing himself to the U-bolt. She didn’t need any signal to know when he was ready; she saw his deep breath, saw him settle into himself.
He’d left the blade on the floor in its folded antique pocketknife form; she reached for it.
She thought better of it, of course. Feeling more foolish than she could remember, she said sternly to it, “Keep your sharp edges to yourself—I’m going to give him back to you. If you mess with me, it’ll only delay things.”
And then, matter-of-fact, she picked it up, pulled open the biggest blade of the two and slipped it under the duct tape.
The tough material parted like finest silk. The pendant fell into her hand, and Mac stiffened, sending her one last panicked and desperate look, and half a word with it. “Gwe—”
The blade took him.
He threw himself against the cuffs with such abrupt viciousness that Gwen fell back, scrambling away— cursing a frantic streak of words even as she bumped into the chair, clawed her way to her feet and got her bearings. Mac’s arms bled freely; he snarled at her, threats and curses and vicious mindlessness.
And already, the drywall around the U-bolt cracked.
Mac, blood at his mouth, eyes streaming and sweat at his brow, grabbed the bolt and held on—not to yank it, but grounding himself. He grasped on to that thin control just long enough to look at her from desperate dark eyes and grate a single word. “Run.”
Gwen did just that.
She fled to the hallway, chased by the renewed sounds of his battle. She fled to the Jeep, leaving both man and dog.
She couldn’t go any farther.
Looking over her shoulder, endlessly listening for sounds that meant Mac had actually freed himself, she dug the business card out of her back pocket and grabbed Mac’s neglected cell phone from the cup holder between the front seats, and dialed.
“Fifteen minutes,” said the woman named Natalie upon hearing her voice, her cry for help. “It’ll take me fifteen minutes.”
“Alone,” Gwen told her, and then made sure the Jeep was ready to go. Ready to run on all counts, and knowing that she’d find Mac again if she had to. That she could.
But Natalie came alone.
Or as alone as she ever got, with a blade in her hand.
And she came on time. Her Prius swooped silently down the vaguely defined drive to the warehouse and braked to a stop. She exited the car with a folder in her hand.
“Did you tell him?” Gwen’s suspicion poked out everywhere.
“Devin?” Natalie shook her head, the sun-streaked glints of blond bright in daylight. “He knows I’m doing something I’m distinctly not telling him. I’ll pay my own price for that. Now, what am I doing here?”
“The blade,” Gwen blurted out, and then stopped herself. More controlled, she said, “He’s fighting it. In there. I don’t know if he’ll win. I need to be able to help him, and I don’t know how. You said you could help. Also there’s a dog and he’s hurt, so we need a vet. And this place might not be safe.”
Natalie absorbed it all without any visible shock. Her blue-grey eyes, a shade darker than Gwen’s, widened only slightly, glancing quickly to the warehouse and back. She said, “A dog.”
“We found him here,” Gwen said, not with any patience. “He’s hurt.”
“So you said.” As aware as she seemed of Gwen’s turmoil, as meaningful as her glance to the warehouse had been, Natalie stood fast. “And you both came to this place—that might not be safe—why?”
Gwen wanted to stomp her foot like a little girl. “He didn’t want to be in public for this.” But she didn’t
