When I’m back in the room, she goes back to doing everything possible to avoid looking at me. I want her to let all her frustrations and anger out on me. I want her to cry, scream, or sob—anything other than this grating silence.

Maybe we just need a change of scenery. Maybe getting some sleep and food will get her to actually look at me.

We pile everything and ourselves into the car without a word, and then get the fuck out of Chicago.

What a load of shit.

Maybe some sleep and some food will fix it? That’s the biggest bullshit I’ve ever told myself.

Bella has had plenty of sleep; I heard her little snores while her back was to me in the car. At this rate, I will know the back of her head better than I know my own hand.

I dragged her to the grocery store—yes, dragged. As I said, I’m not letting her out of my sight, which, in hindsight, was a terrible idea. She’s still all bruised up and didn’t wear any makeup to cover it, so the sight of me forcing her somewhere would be enough for someone to call the police.

I got her all her favorite snacks and takeout food—I even got her a teddy bear hugging a pillow that says, I love you.

Bella happily took what I had to offer her, then shoved it in my face. She accepted the teddy bear, but not without mutilating it first. She literally ripped out the cotton from inside with her bare hands and threw it in the back seat, then turned onto her side so her back was to me. Again.

And people call me a psychopath.

If I weren’t driving and we weren’t trying to get the hell out of dodge, I would’ve pulled off the road and put her over my knee for being such a little brat.

Yes, she’s traumatized over what happened, but keeping it bottled up won’t help any of us.

It’s been twenty-four hours, and she hasn’t said anything other than, “I need to go to the bathroom.” I saw it as an opportunity to blackmail her into speaking to me; talk, and I’ll pull over in exchange.

Did it work?

No. The stubborn princess held it in for almost a goddamn hour before I was the one who relented.

This girl really does have me by the balls.

I even tried saying things I knew would piss her off. Did she take the bait? Absolutely fucking not. Talk about giving a guy the cold shoulder.

Now we’re here, in a shitty motel. She’s still giving me her back—which is fine, because she’s trapped in my arms, and her hips are pressed against mine like the perfect little spoon. She still hasn’t said another word—not even when I stepped into the shower with her—but I’ve decided that she has another twelve hours before I go down the extreme route.

“Bella,” I say into her hair.

Silence.

Fucking hell.

“You better start talking real soon, or else you might regret it.”

Nothing.

“This is me giving you space. If you think I can’t get any worse, you have a whole other thing coming for you, baby girl.”

Zip.

Nada.

I sigh and pull her tighter to my chest. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Isabella.”

Soft light filters through the curtains, illuminating dust motes specked through the air. The stale air is aggravating my nostrils, but the faintest scent of something sweet is settling my nerves.

Jesus Christ, what time is it? I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Based on how bright it is, it’s too early for me to be a functioning human. So, like, eight or nine o’clock in the morning, maybe.

I groan as I stretch my arms, reaching behind me to pull Bella into my chest. Instead of warm skin, my hands touch the flat cotton surface of the very empty bed.

My heart lodges into my throat as I snap upright. “Bella?”

I don’t wait for a response before throwing open the bathroom door.

Empty.

“Bella!” I yell, running to the front door and onto the walkway of the motel. The parking lot is empty; besides an old man, I can’t see anyone else.

Rushing back inside, I finally notice her shoes and coat are missing. So is Mr. Mouse. She’s on the run—she ran from me, just like I was scared of.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I spot her phone on the bedside table and our IDs exactly where I left them last night. My wallet is open on top of my jacket, but it’s still brimming with cash like she opened it and changed her mind, or only took a few bucks so I wouldn’t notice.

Throwing on a random pair of pants and shoes, I shove all our shit into the car and fire up the engine. I barely look back as I reverse out of the park and head onto the main street. The frost covering the windows slowly melts away from the blaring heaters.

My heart hammers erratically against my ribs as I speed down different roads. It’s a small rural town with two motels and a single grocery store. I park and check each and every building she might be in; she couldn’t have gotten far.

Unless she left earlier this morning and caught a bus.

I press my foot on the gas and fiddle with my phone to locate the station—any fucking station, bus, train, radio—I don’t care, as long as I find her.

I barely pay attention to the actual road, speeding along and heading to where my phone tells me to go. The tires screech to a stop in front of a brownstone building with only two bus stops in front of it. Bella isn’t in front of either one of them.

Running inside, I stop in front of a graying lady who looks like she’s never stepped out of the building in her life. She peers up over her glasses at me as I approach the counter.

“Tell me what buses left this morning.”

She scowls and opens her mouth like she’s about to protest.

“Tell me!” I roar.

She jolts in her chair, but raises her chin. “Manners.”

My lips peel back in a snarl. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

The old woman looks at me defiantly in an almost grand-motherly way. “Boys who don’t mind their manners don’t get what they want.”

“Fucking tell me!” I snarl, slamming my hand on the counter.

She blinks at me, bored and waiting.

For fuck’s sake.

“Tell me what buses left this morning,” I grit out. “Please.”

She scoffs. Without another word, she drops a pamphlet onto the counter and returns to reading her book. I snatch it up, running my finger and eyes over the information, matching times and dates with the route.

Only two buses have left this morning; one is heading to Chicago, and the other directly to Denver.

“A girl, pigtails, yay high. Which bus did she take?” I leave no room for negotiations with my question.

The lady stares at me for a moment. Just as I’m about to bark at her, she raises her hand to silence me. “Who’s she to you?”

I narrow my eyes. “Everything.” What is this girls stick together bullshit?

Sighing, she shakes her head. “She could only afford to go to Cheyenne.”

Where the fuck is Cheyenne?

I grunt and run back to my car, hearing the lady mutter, “No wonder she left you.”

Punching the place into my phone, I refer back to the pamphlet. Doing the math, I figure she’s got at least twenty-five minutes on me. Jesus fuck.

I can barely breathe as I speed onto the highway surrounded by nothing but greenery, a cold sweat covering my skin. Irritated and desperate, I tap my fingers on the wheel, trying to contain my scattered breaths and rapid pulse.

The silence in the car makes the voices louder, question upon question piling on top of each other. What if she catches another bus before I get there? What if Vargas somehow knows where she’s headed? What if she never went on the bus and hid in the city? What if that lady lied and Bella is on a bus to Chicago?

God, Bella, Bella, Bella. Please.