He Didn’t Kidnap Me. Not Exactly novel Chapter 300

Chapter 300

{Daisy’s POV}

I replayed his words in my head, certain they’d rearrange themselves into something that actually made

sense the second time through.

They didn’t.

“What?” I said again, because apparently that was the only word my brain currently had access to.

“It’s true,” Archer said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before now. It’s against protocol. I had to gather

information first.”

“What information?” My voice cracked upward, disbelief tangled through every syilable.

I stared at him properly then, top to bottom, like enough scrutiny might reveal the seams of some elaborate costume. The easy smile. The gym bag he used to sling over one shoulder outside lecture halls. The casual way he leaned against door frames like belonging somewhere came naturally to him. None of it had ever looked like a performance. That was somehow the most insulting part.

“You’re really a cop,” I said, flat, like saying it out loud might make it settle somewhere useful in my chest.

It didn’t.

“Roman Volkov. The gangs tied to him.” Archer’s expression stayed steady, serious in a way I’d never once seen on him back at school. “My team and I have been working to bring all of it down. I came here tonight to get one of my people out. He’s in one of these cells.”

That part, at least, made sense.

The rest of it didn’t. Not the months of casual conversations. Not the classes, the small talk, the version of him I’d let myself believe was just an ordinary, slightly too–attractive guy who happened to exist in my orbit. All of it had been a performance, calculated and deliberate, aimed at something I hadn’t even known I was standing inside of

Then a colder thought slid in underneath the rest.

DeLuca.

11:40 am PPP

Chapter 300

Had getting close to me ever really been about me at all, or had I simply been the shortest distance to him? A convenient thread to pull. I didn’t know which answer scared me more, and I hated that I even had

to ask the question.

I turned toward him, already forming the demand – make this make sense, all the way, right now – while he shuffled through the ring of keys he’d taken off the guard, searching for the right one to try against the

cell.

A crash tore through the corridor.

My head snapped toward the sound, toward the door I’d come through myself not long ago.

It was open.

Men poured through it, faces twisted with fury, weapons already raised, moving like they intended to end this the fastest, ugliest way possible.

Every question I still had for Archer evaporated instantly, replaced by a single, overwhelming priority.

Staying alive.

We were running before I’d fully processed deciding to.

Archer had my mother slung carefully over one shoulder, moving fast despite the extra weight, while the

lean, quiet, moving like he’d done this exact kind of running before – kept pace man he’d come to rescue

just ahead of me.

I had a length of iron pipe gripped in both hands, torn loose from some broken fixture along the way, mostly because holding something made me feel marginally less like a walking liability.

Marginally.

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