Esme gritted her teeth at Clay’s response and glared at her captor. He’d brought her blankets, escorted her to use the bathroom, and kept bringing her food as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Each food ration had been smelly, green, and fortunately bland. However, choking down the processed assortment of wafers and paste assured his presence by her side and staved off long, solitary hours. At least they felt long. She figured she’d been here for only two days, though it seemed like weeks. And while Clay—for she’d finally wheedled his name from him—talked tough, he made no move to harm her. In fact, he offered her more personal attention than any man she had ever encountered. If there was a cold-blooded killer inside his crusty shell, then he buried it deep when he was around her without much difficulty. The emotional façade of men driven to abuse remained branded in her memory. Their soullessness radiated from flat, cold eyes that never wavered no matter how much pain they inflicted.
