Trust Me
The shriek of the bolt being drawn in the cell block door
shattered the sultry afternoon silence.
Lilah jerked her head up. For a second, she remained
frozen. Then she scrambled upright, scooted to the far
edge of the thin mat that served as her bed and pressed herself back against the rough concrete wall. She braced herself as the door at the end of the corridor crashed open.
Against a dim spill of light, a pair of jail guards staggered into sight. A man hung limply between them. His
head lolled. His feet trailed in the dust. As the guards
dragged him forward, Lilah stared at tanned, muscular
arms, the hard biceps stretching the sleeves of a faded
olive T-shirt. At inky hair that gleamed even in the murky
illumination. At the trickle of blood beading at the edge
of a determined mouth.
With a long-suffering grunt, the jailers hoisted their
burden a little higher. The prisoner's head tilted sideways,
allowing her a quick view of a straight blade of a nose and
the strong clean line of a cheekbone.
All of which abruptly seemed familiar.
Her heart leapt even as her mind reeled. No. It can't be.
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