Heaven's Crime (gxg) ✓

eleven. probably about to die or whatever

              "Now, do you see that plane in the distance? We're going to walk towards it, and you're going to be very, very quiet."

              The metal of the gun is cool against my side. 

              In this moment, as his scarred fingers squeeze my shoulders, his words tightening in my stomach like lead, I have time to regret leaving Veah.

             But then he shoves me forward. I stumble only a few steps before his hand yanks me back by the hair, and my head tips back over his chest. 

              He whispers, "The flight to Tokyo is twelve hours. Be a good girl, and I'll give you a little treat."

             A shudder ripples through my entire body, and I fight back the urge to close my eyes.

            Breathe, Kaya. Think about—about—

           How you left the only person who was protecting you?

           My nails bite into my palms. I steel myself. She is the reason I'm being dragged to a private plane by a sick, twisted Mafia lord.

           So why can't I stop thinking about the way she covered my body with hers, taking a bullet for me like it was instinctual? 

           Why can't I stop thinking about the way she shouted, Come on! in the middle of the desert, as though leaving me hadn't even crossed her mind?

           And the way she looked at me in the bathroom, my hand still hot from her touch . . . like she thought . . . like she was thinking . . . 

          Don't you dare, Kaya. 

         I focus on my footsteps as we walk cross the threshold of the airport.

         Gravel. Chipped white paint. Sun-warm concrete.

         In the distance, there is a sleek black plane.

         Standing in the doorway of the entrance, there is a tall, broad man with raven-dark hair and an aquiline jaw.

         Dread seeps into my stomach. The man who was giving the others orders—the boss.

         What does he want with me?

         My heart stammers against my chest. A painful melody. I can't be here. This can't be real. But it is startlingly, agonizingly real, and if I don't do something in the next twenty seconds, I will soon be on a twelve-hour flight to Tokyo. 

          I let out a small cry. The Yakuza lord behind me suddenly leans forward, his fingers tightening over my mouth. 

          "What did I say about being a good girl?" he whispers, almost soothing. "You'll have to show me how sorry you are later."

          My stomach clenches, but adrenaline rushes through me. 

          You'll be sorry right now, I think, and I bite down—hard—on the fingers over my mouth.

          He tastes like copper and ink. He releases me for a heartbeat, letting out a dark stream of Japanese curses, and I don't hesitate.

          I run.

          If he catches me now, I get the feeling I'll be really sorry later.

          It is enough to make me faster than I have ever been in my life. My footsteps pound the gravel, my breath rushing out of me, and all I have time to think is, Oh, God, Cassie. Because if something happens to me now, if I let this happen . . .