Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

36. IVY

36

IVY

My new escape plan was solidified. I was going to get out of here, even if it meant killing the man Grayson had left here to babysit me. My last plan—screaming through my duct tape—didn’t work, nor did my hopes that my babysitter might remove it so I could beg to be released. Thrashing my body around in hopes someone would hear the bangs hadn’t worked. That was the only time my mystery captor had come in, by the way—to give me a stern warning to cooperate “or else.”

Or else.

What I wouldn’t give to kick him in the dick for mumbling those two words. I swore I caught a hint of hesitation—dare I say conflict—in his tone, but I was probably hearing what I wanted to.

Had he let me go? No. Had he loosened my bindings? No. He had given me orders and then stomped off to the other side of this hellhole, leaving me alone in here to devise a new plan.

Oh, and by the way, how brazenly confident of him to presume Grayson’s restraints would hold, not feeling the need to check on me and ensure I didn’t slip out of them. When Grayson decided to tie me to the headboard, he’d replaced my flex cuffs—those didn’t wrap around the post like he wanted—with what I was fairly certain were thick shoelaces. Tight ones, knotted several times over, but still, my babysitter hadn’t checked on them once.

Maybe they were buddies who’d done this many times together already. Who knew?

Point was, here I was, alone, and, yes, I’d taken this time to devise a new plan.

Since Asshole Number One—Grayson—had left because he apparently had better things to do than make sure his hostage didn’t escape and Asshole Number Two had left me in here to my own devices, I took advantage of this. I’d been working my wrist bindings for the last half hour or so, and, holy crap, they were actually loosening. Once I got the wrist bindings off, I could yank off my duct tape and easily unfasten my ankle restraint—a belt he’d found in my closet. Taking it off would be easy, however, once I got my wrists freed. And then…

Then, I could make a run for it.

Bonus if I could punch Asshole Number Two in the throat on the way out. Crushing his windpipe would be so satisfying.

I picked the knot again with my fingernail. It had taken what felt like an eternity, but the top of the knot had loosened, and now, I was working its second layer. If only my arms weren’t attached to this damn headboard. This would be so much easier if I had a better angle.

Suddenly, a noise made me freeze, my blood running cold. Not just any noise. Voices.

Shit. Grayson’s back.

Which meant my window to escape was closing.

I pulled at the knot more frantically, and then, to my horror, the sound of wood creaking grew louder until Grayson’s figure appeared in the doorway.

I hated that my heart raced, but what if he had gone to fetch murder supplies? A tarp, that sort of thing? I would not allow myself to get killed today. Not when Grams depended on me. And not by a man whose affection still echoed in my heart.

Grayson’s voice cut through the silence, a dangerous mix of authority and anger that sent shivers down my spine.

“You and I are going to have a talk,” he declared.

I drew in sharp, uneven gulps of air through my nose to combat the panic winding through my ribs.

As Grayson closed the distance between us, a dread unraveled in my stomach.

I could see the resolve in his features, a dark promise that this was far from over. The moment his fingers brushed against my skin, aiming for the tape that covered my lips, an involuntary shudder coursed through me, and I recoiled.

He froze at my movement, his focus fixed on me, his expression unreadable. Was that…pity in his eyes?

It couldn’t be. Killers don’t have emotions.

“I’m going to remove this now,” he said, clutching the corner of the tape between his fingers. “If you scream, you will be punished.”

Punished.

What in the name of all that’s sacred did that mean?

I was lying on a bed.

He wouldn’t…would he?

With the sharp sting, the duct tape ripped off my mouth while Grayson loomed over me like a dark force shadowing my existence.

“I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” he said. “You’re going to answer them.”

“Why?”

In lieu of an answer, his chest swelled.

“Your goal is to kill me.” I searched his features, longing to hear assurances he wouldn’t do it—no matter what.

Instead, like a knife to the bone, he said, “My goal is to find out information.”

My throat burned in betrayal. Why would I have expected anything different? Because we shared some moments together? Because he had seemingly gone out of his way to try to help me with my grandmother’s bill?

Because for the first time for as long as I could remember, my heart had warmed. If I were being honest, my feelings for Pete had faded long ago and never burned that bright to begin with. Grayson had sparked something inside of me that I hadn’t known existed.

And damn it to hell, he’d made me feel a flutter of something other than decay and agony.

Just to turn out to be a killer. My killer, to be more precise.

“What information?” I failed to hide the bite in my tone.

“I need to understand more about your life so I can figure out why you’re a target.”

“We did this already. I showed you my phone and proof that someone lured me to that garage.”

“No,” he said. “You’re going to tell me what I want to know. From your lips to my ears.”

“I told you I’m not a criminal.”

“And yet here we are.”

“What’s the point of asking questions? No matter what I say, it won’t change whatever you believe.”

“Because if you are a criminal, you’re going to be the one to tell me that.”

“Why? So you can sleep at night once you end me?”

No response.

“So, if I answer your questions,” I continued, “and you don’t believe me, you’ll kill me?”

The sharp absence of his denial sliced through my chest.

Why was this happening? I thought my father’s death was a storm I had to walk through, that there would be another side to it, one that didn’t surround me in suffering and grief. What was the purpose of going through all of that if I was simply going to be killed like this?

I thought the universe had more of a purpose than that.

“I have to be at work at seven,” I pushed. “If I don’t show up, they’ll start asking questions.”

“You’ll call in sick.”

No, I won’t.

“Now, let’s start with something easy.”

“I’d like to sit up,” I declared, keeping my voice firm.

If he was going to make me go through this dog and pony show, he could at least make it easier for me to finish picking the knot of my bindings.

“My arms,” I explained. “They’ve been in an awkward position this whole time, and I’m starting to lose feeling in my fingertips.”

Lies. But sitting up would make it a lot easier to escape.

Grayson’s gaze darkened, roaming over my body with a storm of emotions. After a few seconds, he grabbed my upper arms, the unexpected contact sending a shock wave through me that made me gasp.

For a moment, with our faces separated by mere inches, everything stilled. His eyes slowly traced the contours of my skin before settling on my lips, lingering there just long enough to send my heart into a frenzy of confusion. It was a look filled with conflict, a war between his orders and the undeniable connection that pulsed between us.

A connection I didn’t want to feel, hated, even, but one that made me realize, He’s having doubts about going through with my death.

He was having doubts in my apartment, thus the abduction and kidnapping, but until this moment, I had assumed he’d squashed those doubts. After all, there was no way he could let me go—not without him going to prison.

Yet here, in the tension-filled silence, the possibility that he might release me seemed to hang in the balance—a thought as dangerous as it was exhilarating.

Grayson’s focus dragged up my face once more before he finally adjusted my position, guiding me to sit with my back against his headboard. Despite the bindings that held my arms and ankles, the simple act felt strangely intimate, a protective gesture that softened the harsh reality of our situation.

The part of my heart that was in a pathetic level of denial ached to feel his chest against mine, for him to become my protector again rather than my aggressor.

“Thank you.” The words tumbled from me before I had a chance to remind the feeble chamber of my soul, He’s been ordered to kill me.

No matter what I said, I needed to remember that we were not on the same team.

As Grayson walked to the other side of the room, seemingly putting the distance between us required to keep his head clear, I pulled at the knot behind my back.

“What are your political affiliations?” The tight tone of his voice was a jarring contradiction to the softness of the moment we had shared.

“I don’t have any,” I said.

“What about political donations?” Grayson said. “Make any to groups, even if you didn’t realize you were actually funding criminals?”

“You think I can afford to donate money when I’m behind on Grams’s bills?” The top of the knot loosened even more. “Besides, even if I had, isn’t the CIA more sophisticated than that? Wouldn’t they vet a target super thoroughly before murdering them?”

Grayson’s lips thinned. “Then, what were you doing in that garage?”

Oh my god. “I’ve told you a million times. Asked and answered. What were you doing in the garage?”

He said nothing.

“You were there to kill someone,” I realized.

No denial.

“That guy that tried to kill me,” I said, recalling the accusation Grayson made in my living room. Specifically the kind of people he thought I was in bed with. “He was an arms dealer?”

His non-denial confirmed it while my mind grappled with the shocking reality. I had been lured to a parking garage by someone who was either an arms dealer or knew that an arms dealer would be there.

That took the attack against me to a whole new level and opened up more questions than answers.

“And then you followed me,” I realized. “You followed me to the coffee shop and pretended it was the first time you’d seen me.”

“Tell me about your father,” he said.

My jaw tightened, my head whiplashing with his rapid changing of the subject.

“What about him?”

“Might he have been?—”

“An arms dealer? No.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Was your father an arms dealer?” I spat, trying to prove my point.

“My father was the noblest person I knew,” Grayson said.

“Looks like the apple fell pretty far from the tree then,” I retorted.

“Your father…”

“Was a protector, not a killer!”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The same way you know your father wasn’t an arms dealer. We know our family, Grayson. And I knew my father. He protected me when…”

Grayson’s head tilted to the side. “When what?”

Crap. I hadn’t meant to let that slip—the darkest secret in my past.

“Nothing.” I looked down at my legs. “Next question.”

“What did your father protect you from?”

I said nothing.

“I’ll remind you of the terms of our agreement. I ask questions, and you answer them.”

“It’s none of your business, so if that’s a deal-breaker, go ahead and slit my throat.”

He glared at me. “You’d risk death rather than answering?”

Part of it was to protect my heart; it had taken me years of therapy to get past that childhood event, and I certainly wasn’t going to pick the scab right now when I was my most vulnerable. Plus, I wasn’t about to divulge something so intimate to this guy, who’d already penetrated my heart once.

“It has nothing to do with today.”

“We don’t know that.” Grayson stepped forward, fingers flexing at his sides while a thousand thoughts seemed to flash across his features. “Your fighting skills,” he started, his voice low and measured. “Those are mastered over a period of years of careful training and practice.”

My heart quickened, and my palms grew clammy. What did he want, true or false responses from me? Not happening. I would not let anyone see the scars that I kept hidden deep inside.

“It started as self-defense classes, didn’t it?” he pressed, searching my face, probing for the truth that I desperately tried to conceal.

I swallowed hard, fighting back tears, pushing back the memory by focusing on something physical while I continued to loosen the knot of my bindings.

“Someone hurt you,” Grayson realized, his tone pulsing somewhere between tenderness and fury.

Desperate to steer the conversation back to safer ground, away from the darkness that haunted me, I choked out, “What can I say to convince you that I’m not a criminal?” Because that was what we were supposed to be talking about, not my childhood trauma.

“So, you kept going,” he continued, undeterred—a bloodhound on the scent. “You kept advancing in the classes because the more you knew how to fight, the less vulnerable you felt.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me. I felt exposed, raw, like he had peeled back the layers of my armor and left me defenseless.

I tried to hide the tremble in my voice. “Would that make you believe I’m innocent?” Because, yeah, anyone who’s been hurt in their past is innocent, right?

A flicker of emotion passed over Grayson’s face, a tug-of-war between empathy and suspicion. His eyes, once cold and unreadable, now shone with a soft light, a glimmer of respect for the warrior I had become.

But having something bad happen to you as a child didn’t make you innocent. Case in point, look at Grayson. He had childhood trauma, and I thought he had overcome it, that he was a better man because of it. But he was nothing but a killer.

Why do I care? Why am I letting this hurt?

“I thought you were different,” I whispered, my chest clenching with something that I couldn’t quite name. “I thought you were good. But you’re no better than…” Those men who’d hurt me.

Grayson’s body grew rigid, the veins on his neck popping out as his jaw ticced with barely contained rage.

“Than who, Ivy?”

A tear dripped down my cheek, but Grayson’s body didn’t soften with empathy. If anything, it had grown even more rigid, the veins on his neck popping out as his jaw ticced.

“Who hurt you?” he demanded, his voice a barely contained snarl.

It didn’t matter, and I wasn’t falling for his protective act. This was probably some ploy, a tactic to pull my most vulnerable information out of me so he could weaponize it and manipulate me into doing whatever he wanted.

Screw him.

“I need a drink of water,” I declared.

Grayson studied me, his features darker than I’d ever seen them.

“I haven’t had water in a long time,” I reminded him. “So, if you meant what you said and want to keep me alive, I need water.”

See? I could play the role of a wide-eyed victim. Look at me go, furrowing my eyebrows, making him think he had all the power over me.

As if, you hostage-holding asshole.

Grayson hesitated, seemingly trapped in my partial revelation. His gaze flickered with a mixture of emotions—frustration at not knowing what happened, anger that someone had hurt me, but also compassion. When he opened his mouth to speak, he closed it, torment crossing his features like he felt bad that I’d already been through hell today and he didn’t want to add more to it by pressing me. Not when my eyes were blurry with tears, at least.

Instead, he clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as silence stretched between us, saturated with unspoken emotions.

After what felt like an eternity, Grayson let out a deep sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck. Then, he took a step away, then another, so slowly, it was clear this was hard for him—to let this conversation drop. But thankfully, he did, and finally, I was once again alone.

That’s when I made my move.