Finally he loosened his hold on me enough that I could try to speak in pained gasps. “What . . . are you going . . . to do with me?”
“That’s not up to me.” Declan’s iron grip on me went a little more lax as he tucked the phone back into the pocket of his black jeans. It was enough to let me sink my teeth into his arm. He pushed me back so hard I whacked my head against the wall and fell to the ground. I’d managed to draw blood on his forearm, which was already riddled with other scars.
I scrambled up to my feet, adrenaline coursing through my body. I was ready to do whatever I had to in order to fight for my life, but another curtain of agony descended over me.
“What’s happening to me?” I managed to say through clenched teeth. “What the hell was in that syringe?”
Declan grabbed me by the front of my shirt and brought me very close to his scarred face. “Poison.”
My eyes widened. “Oh my God. What kind of poison?”
“The kind that will kill you,” he said simply. “Which is why you have to come with me.”
I shook my head erratically. “I have to get to a hospital.”
“No.” He grabbed me tighter. “Death now or death later. That’s your only choice.”
It was a choice I didn’t want to make. It was one I wouldn’t have to make. More pain erupted inside of me and the world went totally and completely black.
Skin & Bone
AVA GRAY
For those who loved, lost, and had the courage to try again
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
You first met Silas in Skin Tight; I hope you enjoy his story.
Thanks to Laura Bradford, Cindy Hwang, Lauren Dane, Bree Bridges, Larissa Ione, Donna Herren, Jenn Bennett, Courtney Milan, and Karen Erickson. You all supported this series from the beginning, and I value your encouragement.
Thanks to Stefanie Gostautas for her excellent proofreading.
And thanks, as ever, to my family. Their patience and understanding make all this possible.
Finally, I send profound appreciation to all my readers. Your e-mails mean the world to me, so please keep writing. That’s [email protected].
ONE
PUERTO LÓPEZ, ECUADOR
The whole world roared.
One minute, Silas had a bottle of beer in his hand; the next, the cantina roof threatened to crumble down on top of him. Nearby, rubble pinned a waitress to the floor; blood trickled from her mouth. With the ceiling collapsing around him, he levered the wreckage off her and felt for a pulse. Dead. Shit. Falling chunks of cement and plaster forced him to dive for the doorway. He crouched, arms over his head, and willed the framework to hold. He hadn’t escaped from the Foundation—and put several thousand miles between him and their hunters—to die here.
The reel of his life spun into motion, full of sorrow and infinite regret. Things he’d done and wished he hadn’t, all the faces of people he’d hurt. In particular, he could still see the blond woman, Olivia. She’d begged him to kill her, time and again. More than most, she’d gotten into his head—because that was her gift—and her curse. To this day, she still haunted his dreams, and he didn’t know how to make her go away. Maybe he couldn’t. Sometimes he thought it wasn’t even her anymore, but that her thin face personified his guilt.
But to be fair, his dark history had not begun down in the lab. It started years before in a deserted parking garage, where a mugger demanded his wallet, and he’d broken the man’s neck. Without so much as touching him. Nobody had ever been able to explain that death; it remained an open cold case in Michigan to this day. That was when he’d known his difference ran bone deep. He just hadn’t known why until the Foundation took him.
The tremors went on for over five minutes while he sat listening to the screams; cries of pain and horror filled what had been a bright Thursday afternoon. For the first time in months, he’d felt safe, because nobody knew him. He was just another anonymous expat. How ironic.
At last, the shocks stopped. Covered in dust and debris, he staggered into the dirt street of the fishing village. The wreckage humbled him. No matter how strong or powerful you thought you were, Mother Nature delivered a crippling kick in the nuts. Most of the buildings had been constructed of lesser materials, and they lay in ruins. He had been lucky; he’d chosen the cantina for its shady interior, knowing cement and plaster kept the cool air better.
“Por favor,” a woman begged. “Ayúdame!”
It sounded like she was close by. God, he wished his gift had some useful secondary application, but it could be used for only one purpose—and that was why he had chosen to accept five years of abuse in lieu of revealing it to his captors. He could never allow them to learn what he could do. The price was simply too high.
Ignoring the shallow cuts and bruises on his arms, he located the woman by listening to her intermittent calls. A f**kton of rubble had fallen on top of her, and he hesitated to start digging. He might make it worse: unbalance the wreckage and kill her. He’d intentionally gone off the grid, but now that decision carried awful weight. Out here, there was no emergency infrastructure, and no telling how long it would take Ecuadoran authorities to mount any kind of rescue. In all honesty, Puerto López probably wouldn’t rank high on their list. More populated areas required assistance first.
Therefore, this woman had him, and nobody else. As he contemplated that, she wept in tiny choking sobs.
Using the brute strength that accompanied his size, he pulled chunks of cement off the pile and tossed them behind him, careful not to let the load topple inward. It required great patience, but fortunately, life had taught him about timing and waiting for the right opportunity. That permitted him to be methodical: shift this, pull that, don’t let it collapse. He listened to her whimpering breaths; they weakened as he worked.
“No abandone,” he said, knowing his accent was terrible. “Casi soy terminado.”
To his surprise, she responded in English. “You’re American?”
“Yeah. I’m doing what I can for you. Nobody official’s on scene yet.”
She responded, her voice tight with pain, “Thank you.”
Silas spoke of inconsequential things as he dug. He told her how he’d traveled from California to Mexico and meandered south on hot, dirty buses. Sometimes there were boats, but he didn’t like them. Everything he owned had been in the duffel he’d left at his hostel, but it was probably long gone.