Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,108

reminds me of preachers and zealots, and people who bring up conspiracy theories whenever they’ve had a drink or two.

“Thirsty?” he says.

His voice is like his face. Low, soft, almost pleasant. But fizzling with a strange energy.

Dante’s voice, while rough enough to send shivers over my skin, always has the ring of honesty. You know that he means what he says. Du Pont is the opposite—I don’t trust anything that comes out of his mouth.

Like this offer of water. I don’t want to drink anything he gives me—it could be drugged or poisoned. But my mouth is parched from all the crying I did in the bathroom right before Du Pont grabbed me. My head is throbbing and I really do desperately need a drink.

Du Pont can tell, without me saying anything.

“Come on,” he urges. “Can’t have you passing out.”

He uncaps a water bottle and approaches me. Without meaning to, I shuffle backward over the rough path, not wanting him to get so close to me.

Du Pont smirks, grabbing me by the shoulder and holding the water bottle to my lips. He watches as I take a few hesitant gulps. Some of the water leaks out and runs down the sides of my mouth, down my chin, dripping onto my bare chest and down the front of my dress.

Du Pont just watches, making no move to help mop it up.

“Better?” he says.

The water tastes heavenly, despite being lukewarm from the long drive in the van. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of relief or gratitude.

Du Pont turns around and closes the van doors. He’s pulled the van into a little offshoot between the trees—not a road, but a cubby of sorts. Now he’s tugging something over the whole van. It looks almost like a big fishing net, covered in leaves and moss. He throws a couple branches on top, and the van becomes camouflaged, enough that you’d drive right past it without noticing.

While Du Pont is fucking around with the net, I’ve got the screw out and I’m madly sawing at the last bit of plastic holding the zip-tie together. Finally it snaps. The second it does, I sprint off down the road. I’m running full out, ignoring the rough ground cutting my feet. With my hands free, I pump my arms, using the full length of my legs, not allowing myself to notice how stiff and sore I am from the long ride in the back of the van.

I’m a good runner. I regularly do eight miles on the treadmill. I’m fast and I can go a long time.

And right now, I’m fueled by the adrenaline coursing through my veins like battery acid. I might be running faster than I ever have in my life.

I can’t waste a second looking back, but I think I’m getting away. I don’t hear anything behind me. Maybe Du Pont is trying to clear off the van, so he can turn it around to chase after me. As soon as I hear the engine, I’m going to leave the road and run into the woods.

That’s what I’m thinking when he slams into me.

He tackles me to the ground, taking out my knees and wrapping me up in his arms so we crash down together, my arms already pinned to my sides and my legs trapped in between his.

It’s almost gentle, the way he takes me down. He makes sure I don’t hit my head, or skin my face raw.

I don’t know how the fuck he caught up to me like that—silently, without me even knowing he was closing in. He leapt on me like a lion, overpowering me instantly.

I shriek and struggle, trying to wrench my way out of his arms. It’s impossible. They’re locked around me like steel. I start to sob, because I realize that’s how it’s going to be when he lets me loose. He’s faster and stronger. He’s going to kill me so quickly that I won’t even see it coming.

I can smell his aftershave and the light scent of his sweat. I hate it. I hate being this close to him. I hate being touched by him.

Du Pont doesn’t seem to mind it at all. He lays there, holding me as tightly and tenderly as a lover, until I stop struggling. Then he stands, hauling me up too.

“Don’t do that again,” he says. “Or I won’t be so gentle next time.”

He pushes me back down the path, forcing me to walk ahead of him. We