“You offered me shelter,” she pointed out. “I asked you to take me to the—”
“Further proof,” he cut in, “that I’m trying to help. I think what’s bothering you isn’t ‘that look’ I’m supposed to be wearing, but your own insecurities.”
Okay, that had been harsh. He wasn’t entirely surprised when her eyes brimmed with tears and she got up from the table with a wounded look—one that would keep him awake for hours—and ran upstairs.
Some sweetheart he was.
CHAPTER FOUR
BEAZIE WAS FROZEN, and she couldn’t determine where she was. It felt like she was in deep freeze. She was cold inside as well as out.
She must be dying. Tremors racked her, and she wondered if it was possible to rattle apart, for cold limbs to simply break off—the way pieces of your life sometimes did.
Darkness permeated everything, and she swore she could feel her life slipping away. She tried to remember the warmth of love, of belonging, of being needed, but it had been gone for so long.
She began to weep for it. Longing was cold, too, and only served to worsen her situation.
Then she heard the sounds of a car engine, saw headlights in her frigid darkness, then men with guns drawn, coming for her.
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