assumed Wren was in an abusive relationship.
If only the truth were that easy . She wet a length of paper towel and scrubbed the worst of the dirt and dried blood from her face and around her nose. There wasn’t much she could do for her knotted and snarled hair, but she ripped a piece of her old shirt and used it to tie it back so it didn’t look as bad. Then she put on the new shirt and buttoned it, feeling more human.
She dug the money the woman had given her from the pocket of her shorts and counted out $20USD. Enough for a bottle of water and something to eat, at least. Assuming Cervantes wasn’t just beyond the door waiting for her.
Wren hesitated with her fingers on the door handle. Her heart was pounding so loud she could no longer hear the café’s music. What if he was out there, waiting? She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him take her again. She’d fight to the death, if she had to.
Where was Stone? Had he followed her? Had he stopped to deal with Cervantes? Was he even alive?
She knew in her gut that Cervantes wasn’t dead, wasn’t going to stop. He’d find her.
Wren pushed through the door, tensed for the worst.
10
Stone slid between people, scanning faces. Shaw was insanely busy, people streaming in all directions. Ahead, he saw a commotion, a cluster of onlookers crowded in a circle around someone. Stone used his height to peer over their heads, caught a glimpse of Cervantes climbing to his feet, his face a mask of blood.
“She went that way,” someone said in Filipino, pointing toward the escalators. “She looked like she’d been through some shit.”
Cervantes had ripped off his shirt and had it pressed to his temple. He was sagging against a pillar, clearly in pain, dizzy and disoriented. Stone wished he could finish the job, but Wren was his first priority. He’d have to deal with Cervantes, but he couldn’t do anything at the moment. Stone pushed through the crowd toward the escalators. Where would Wren have gone?
Out of the mall. Out, away. Somewhere familiar, probably. Stone headed toward the mall’s entrance, scanning, searching. Outside, he paused, watching the crowds and cars move in an endless stream.
There: a Starbucks. Probably the most familiar place of all for a lost and afraid American girl. The first place Cervantes would check, too, most likely. Stone ran across the street, dodging traffic and nearly getting hit a few times before reaching the sidewalk, leaving stopped cars and shouted curses in his wake. He jerked the door open and sucked in a breath of the familiar coffee shop air. He didn’t see her in the dining room, didn’t see her in line or waiting for a drink. Maybe she wasn’t here.
Then the bathroom door opened, and there she was. She’d cleaned up a bit, found a new shirt. Good girl.
She still looked battered and in pain and terrified, but she was scanning the shop with wary, alert eyes. Stone’s gut twisted at the sight of her. Bruises darkened her face, and she looked sweaty, even though it was cool—almost cold—inside Starbucks. He saw her reach a hand to her forearm and scratch absently, then notice what she was doing and stop, shaking her hand as if flinging away the need to scratch.
He slipped through the crowd, willing Wren to glance his way, to see him. He dared not call out, knowing she’d bolt, and that would make a scene. He needed to get her away from this area without drawing any more attention than necessary. He closed to within three feet before she spotted him.
Her entire being lit up, as if merely seeing him was salvation. She flew through the air and slammed into his chest, her arms wrapping around his neck. His arms clutched her waist and he buried his face in her hair.
A moment passed, and then another, and then he felt her body jerk and shudder, a sob ripping from her. “Stone…oh God, Stone. Don’t—please don’t let him—”
“I’ve got you, Wren. You’re safe, baby. I promise.” Baby?
If only the truth were that easy . She wet a length of paper towel and scrubbed the worst of the dirt and dried blood from her face and around her nose. There wasn’t much she could do for her knotted and snarled hair, but she ripped a piece of her old shirt and used it to tie it back so it didn’t look as bad. Then she put on the new shirt and buttoned it, feeling more human.
She dug the money the woman had given her from the pocket of her shorts and counted out $20USD. Enough for a bottle of water and something to eat, at least. Assuming Cervantes wasn’t just beyond the door waiting for her.
Wren hesitated with her fingers on the door handle. Her heart was pounding so loud she could no longer hear the café’s music. What if he was out there, waiting? She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him take her again. She’d fight to the death, if she had to.
Where was Stone? Had he followed her? Had he stopped to deal with Cervantes? Was he even alive?
She knew in her gut that Cervantes wasn’t dead, wasn’t going to stop. He’d find her.
Wren pushed through the door, tensed for the worst.
10
Stone slid between people, scanning faces. Shaw was insanely busy, people streaming in all directions. Ahead, he saw a commotion, a cluster of onlookers crowded in a circle around someone. Stone used his height to peer over their heads, caught a glimpse of Cervantes climbing to his feet, his face a mask of blood.
“She went that way,” someone said in Filipino, pointing toward the escalators. “She looked like she’d been through some shit.”
Cervantes had ripped off his shirt and had it pressed to his temple. He was sagging against a pillar, clearly in pain, dizzy and disoriented. Stone wished he could finish the job, but Wren was his first priority. He’d have to deal with Cervantes, but he couldn’t do anything at the moment. Stone pushed through the crowd toward the escalators. Where would Wren have gone?
Out of the mall. Out, away. Somewhere familiar, probably. Stone headed toward the mall’s entrance, scanning, searching. Outside, he paused, watching the crowds and cars move in an endless stream.
There: a Starbucks. Probably the most familiar place of all for a lost and afraid American girl. The first place Cervantes would check, too, most likely. Stone ran across the street, dodging traffic and nearly getting hit a few times before reaching the sidewalk, leaving stopped cars and shouted curses in his wake. He jerked the door open and sucked in a breath of the familiar coffee shop air. He didn’t see her in the dining room, didn’t see her in line or waiting for a drink. Maybe she wasn’t here.
Then the bathroom door opened, and there she was. She’d cleaned up a bit, found a new shirt. Good girl.
She still looked battered and in pain and terrified, but she was scanning the shop with wary, alert eyes. Stone’s gut twisted at the sight of her. Bruises darkened her face, and she looked sweaty, even though it was cool—almost cold—inside Starbucks. He saw her reach a hand to her forearm and scratch absently, then notice what she was doing and stop, shaking her hand as if flinging away the need to scratch.
He slipped through the crowd, willing Wren to glance his way, to see him. He dared not call out, knowing she’d bolt, and that would make a scene. He needed to get her away from this area without drawing any more attention than necessary. He closed to within three feet before she spotted him.
Her entire being lit up, as if merely seeing him was salvation. She flew through the air and slammed into his chest, her arms wrapping around his neck. His arms clutched her waist and he buried his face in her hair.
A moment passed, and then another, and then he felt her body jerk and shudder, a sob ripping from her. “Stone…oh God, Stone. Don’t—please don’t let him—”
“I’ve got you, Wren. You’re safe, baby. I promise.” Baby?
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