She reached for Callan, and he stumbled forward, the tightening knot in his throat crushing his windpipe. His arms itched to close around her, but he trembled so fiercely he feared the slightest contact might turn him to dust.
She untangled herself from Rhys, and the invitation for any contact was silently rescinded.
Her arms hugged her ribs. “You have te leave. I know Rory convinced you te stay, but you have te go. The both of ye.”
“I’m not leavin’ ye here,” Rhys snapped. “And Callan can handle himself.”
“Do ye not get it?” Her face crumbled, her hands fisting in front of her chest. “He doesnae have an off switch. He doesnae care who he hurts, and he willnae hesitate te hurt ye if it gets him what he wants.”
“What does he want?” Callan still couldnae accept that this was about a human doll and taxation.
“Power. Loyalty. Toys. It’s all a game to him. He’s demented, and he’ll use ye against me.”
Or maybe use her against them. “We’re gettin' you out of here.”
“No.”
“Aye. Tonight. You’ll go with Rhys, and I’ll stay behind.”
“No, you’re not listening! I’m safe until I leave.”
“This is safe?” Callan yelled, not expecting an argument. “Were ye safe when he did tha’ to your face?”
Her body noticeably stiffened. She silently gathered herself, straightening her spine and raising her chin. “I’m not a child anymore.”
Rhys took a step closer. “Innis—”
She jerked away when he tried to touch her. “Of all people, ye should be on my side, Rhys.”
“I am on yer side,” he snapped. “Leavin’ is the right thing to do! Callan will catch up with us.”
“No.” She shook her head, taking several steps back. “I’m not a prisoner here. I havenae been for some time. He knows I’ll never leave. I cannae betray that.”
“Jesus. He’s gotten in yer head.” This could only be some demented form of Stockholm’s. “Innis, we’re yer family.”
Her mouth pressed tight. “I’m staying. I have to.”
Callan’s mind scrambled. “Does he have Gavin—”
“Gavin’s dead.” She held his stare. “They drowned him the night of the fire. He never made it out of Glasgow.”
He staggered back, his entire body gone cold.
“Do ye not see?” she pleaded. “He knows how to get what he wants. He’s ruthless. They all are. But he’s the boss.”
She dinnae know the things he’d done since losing his mind. “Innis, I can protect you—”
Her head shook. “No! Ye have te go. I cannae spare the worry, and I cannae stomach the thought of anything happening te either of you.”
“You’re out of yer fuckin’ mind if ye think we’re leavin’ you here!” Rhys snapped. “Enough of this. There’s nothin’ he can do te hold ye here if we leave together.”
“Ye dinnae ken! Ye think that, but ye dinnae have all the facts. I assure ye, he can keep me here. There’s nothing ye can say to make me betray him.”
“Why?” Callan all but snarled.
She looked up at him, tears swimming in her eye. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her head lowered and she turned to Rhys, her tears dripping down her face in defeated resignation. “I have to stay because he has our daughter.”
Chapter Seventeen
Saratoga Springs, New York—America
Present Day
Officer Banks met Callan and Emery outside of the station and escorted them inside. Her powerful polis presence cast an invisible shield around Emery, and he appreciated what seemed innate protectiveness.
They were led into a private room with a table and four chairs. Officer Banks sat across from them and slid a stack of stapled papers over the battered tabletop.
“You can take as much time as you need. You’ll want to read over everything carefully. If you recall new details or find any errors, we’ll correct the information. At the bottom of each page, there’s a space for you to initial. Only initial pages that have accurate information. And let me know if there’s anything you’d like to add.”
Emery stared at the thick packet, her hands resting in her lap under the table. “I have to read all of this, now?”
“I know it’s overwhelming,” Officer Banks spoke in a tone that made Callan grateful she’d been the officer on duty last night. Empathy and exhaustion reflected in her eyes, a testament of her dedication to the job. “But we need an exact statement in order to press charges.”
The room grew so silent and cold he could hear Emery’s breath skating into the air. Slowly, she lifted her left hand and turned over the cover page. Time suspended as she stared down at that first page listing her name and personal details.
“Pen...?” she rasped, and Officer Banks slid one across the table.
Emery lifted it like a foreign object, limited to her left hand. She took a moment to adjust her hold in her less dominant hand, another long moment to read over the first page, which verified logistical details.
Her initials scraped onto the bottom of the sheet with unsteady curves. A long huff filled the silence as she turned the page.
Black, heavily inked words crowded the white space. His eyes glazed over as several terms popped off the page. Victim. Intercourse. Bathroom. Pushed. Pulled. Said stop. Repeated. Penis. Forced. Evidence. Blunt and matter-of-fact, the words carved into him, yet lacked all accountability. It was as if these events had happened to an object, not a person. They read like stereo instructions, yet each offensive letter processed like a lead bullet, lethal enough to rip a person open.
There were roughly twenty-some pages, and she initialed one about every five minutes. Some she seemed to only stare at, not reading a single word.
Many times he wished to help her through, but his voice abandoned him. He couldnae say those horrific truths out loud. It would hurt too much. Just watching her struggle through this moment gutted him.
Somehow, she made it to the last page where she signed a sloppy version of her name and gently put down the pen. Officer Banks attempted to speak when she finished, but Callan held up a hand, silencing any further discussion. It was enough. Emery had suffered enough.
They waited outside for another car to collect them. Ten, possibly twenty minutes in the cold and neither he nor Emery spoke a word. What was there to say?
The ride to her home seemed an out of body experience. He could only imagine what she was feeling.
Emery lived in a wee house with a red door, twin planters beneath the front windows and a large tree in the front. It sat like a postcard on a picture perfect street. The driver dropped them off and realized they dinnae have keys.
Knowing one hid under the planter, he waited for her to disclose its location. She stared at him as if she dinnae recognize her own home.
“The door’s locked,” he said softly, and she blinked.
“Oh.” Bruises had started to darken on her face. She nudged the planter aside, its need for water making it light, but she still winced.
“I can—”
“Here.” Her discomfort showed in the set of her mouth and the way she coddled her side as she bent down.
He silently took the key and opened the door, following her into the house. It was the first time he’d ever been invited inside.
“Can I get ye something?” He knew she liked chamomile tea sometimes, and there was that mangy, stuffed dog she slept with. “Tea?”
He needed a distraction from his thoughts. Before they left the clinic, the doctor gave a rundown of all her injuries. The length of the damage gutted him.
Contusions on the front of her hips, slight tearing of flesh, numerous lacerations on the backs of her thighs, multiple shattered bones in her hand... He couldnae think of the more intimate details without losing his mind, so he blocked out several. Her biggest scars would mark her heart.
“You’re probably starving,” she said, drifting into the kitchen.
; He frowned, not worried about his needs. He knew her jaw was hurting. And her ears. “Do ye have soup? I could put some on, get something in yer stomach. Broth willnae pain you te eat.”
“Hello, sweet baby.”
He turned, drawn by the soft pitch of her voice. Little begging mews filled the quiet as her cat rubbed her legs. She crouched down, but it cost her.
“Where do ye keep the cat food?”
“In the cabinet next to the fridge.”
The cat followed him to the cupboard, jumping into the open cabinet. It butted its furry head against his arm, and Callan laughed. “A wee lion.”
“He likes you.”
A relationship that had taken time to cultivate. He grinned and scratched the wee beastie’s head. When he poured the food into its bowl, it purred, munching with eager bites.
“What’s his name?”
“Ernie.”
He cocked his head. “Like the puppet?”
“Like the writer. It’s short for Ernest Hemingway.”
He crouched in front of the counter, studying the hungry critter. “Hemingway’s a good name—one of my favorite authors. I doubt you appreciate her callin’ ye Ernie though.”
“You read Hemingway?”
He stood and searched for a pan to heat some soup. He helped himself to whatever was in her cabinets, finding a few options and the necessary utensils in the drawers.
“He’s one of the best. Wastes no time gettin’ to the point, and he has an eloquent way of describing life’s ugliness.” He dragged a hand over the cat’s back, and its spine hitched. “Hemingway believed cats were the souls of a house. Tomato or chicken noodle?” He held up two cans.
Her lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. “Tomato. In a mug please.”
He got to work, searching out a can opener and figuring out the controls of her stove. She disappeared into the other room.
A bang ripped his attention from the soup, and he rushed toward the sound. “What do ye think you’re doin’?”
Her face flushed, her breathing unsteady. The sofa cushions were on the floor, and a metal frame protruded from the couch.
“I’m opening this for you.”
Pressing his lips tight so not to yell at her for taxin’ herself on his account, he crossed the room and pulled the accordion frame free. “Just ... sit. The doctors said no heavy lifting.” And he dinnae recall asking for a bed.
She lowered into the chair, and he regretted raising his voice.
Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I don’t know how to do this.”
He frowned. “Ye dinnae need to do anything, Em’ry.”
“They all know, don’t they? Matt, Marco, Christine...”
He lowered himself to sit across from her, and the mattress whined. “There’s nothin’ to be ashamed of, love.”
A deep V formed between her brows. “I know this wasn’t my fault, but the humiliation keeps getting bigger. And the audience keeps getting wider.”
“No one’s judgin’ ye.”
Her head turned to the side, face pinched with tension. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to go back there.”
His heart stuttered. He couldnae imagine working at the hotel with no Emery. She was the reason he kept the job. “Give yourself time.”
How much time? Before he could think of something more comforting to say, the soup hissed in the kitchen, and he cursed.
The pot had boiled over, and he had a fine mess on his hands. He pulled the last paper towel from the roll and searched for napkins.
“Will you stay?”
All concerns washed away as he pivoted.
She stood in the open doorway looking nothing like herself. Purple and yellow bruises shaded her face, and her hair was twisted back in a ponytail that made her look a decade younger than she was. The baggy sweats they’d given her swallowed her womanly figure. She looked absolutely innocent and terrified.
“Aye. I’ll stay as long as ye need.” He’d just have to make a phone call.
Relief loosened her spine, and she leaned into the wall. “Thank you.”
He fixed her a mug of soup and cleaned up the mess while she sipped it silently. They dinnae speak, but neither of them seemed to mind the silence. Silence meant not crying.
Her eyes wore a hundred years of exhaustion when she looked at him.
“You need sleep,” he whispered.
“I need a shower.”
His stomach turned. They’d sponged her clean at the clinic, but he couldnae bear to imagine what her body felt like, the sort of invisible filth she’d been trying to ignore.
“I’ll wrap your cast. Do you have a bag?”
She pointed to the cupboard, and he remembered one of those dainty bag socks.
His hands shook as he unwound the crinkled plastic. Guilt, for not realizing this would be her first concern, stole through him, followed by the painful awareness that another man had touched her. More than touched her—violated her.
He gripped the cabinet door, catching his breath. His legs shook with unsure steps as he staggered to a chair.
She held out her casted hand, and he covered it carefully with the plastic bag. So trusting. So gentle.
A delicate groove tightened at her brow, just above a yellowing bruise. She blinked at him and frowned.
“You...” She paused and looked at him in question. “You came back to the hotel.”
“I...” He shifted, self-consciousness jostling his usual confidence. She deserved his honesty where he could offer it. “I couldn’t leave. I tried, but I had a feelin’—stronger than usual.”
“Stronger than usual?” she repeated.
He swallowed and nodded. “I try hard not to get in yer way, but I’m not perfect.”
“What are you saying?”
His lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze shifted away at the discomforting sense of exposure.
“Callan?”
He couldnae do it. Terrified he might scare her, he couldnae tell her how much he thought about her when they were apart. “We’ll discuss it another time.”
“I thought you met someone on Fridays. Isn’t that where you go?”
His gaze jerked back to her. Is that what she thought? Nothing could be further from the truth. “No.”
Confusion dominated her bruised face, but he sensed relief. Did she not realize how fond of her he was? Of course, she dinnae realize. How would she?
In that moment, it became everything to pay her a compliment. Something she could hold onto and take with her into tomorrow and the next day as the dust settled, something that told her he saw and respected her.
“You’re very strong, Em’ry.”
Her jaw quivered, a fresh sheet of tears shimmering in her eyes. “What other choice do I have?”
“Not all women would handle this so well.”
“You don’t handle it. It handles you.”
Cradling her broken hand in his, he sighed. “Dinnae underestimate your resilience, love. Ye never know how much ye can take until ye reach a point where ye can take no more.”
“I think I’m there.”
He shook his head. “No. You’re still breathin’.”
A tear tripped past her lashes, the gentle fall nicking his heart. It seemed like a sin to let such sorrows escape. He caught it with a trace of his thumb, and she stared at him, not in fear or repulsion, but in some sort of awe.
Her uninjured hand lifted to his face, and he held his breath. Her eyes squinted, and she traced a finger over his temple. The scar there cut clean through his eyebrow. He’d had it for nearly six years, but it never felt healed. Not until her fingers touched it.
With a soft caress, her caress feathered down his cheek, the delicate pads treading over the stubble of his beard.
“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered.
He dinnae know what to say to such a misdirected comment. His breath quickened when she outlined his lips with her fingertips. “Em’ry.”
She blinked u
p at him as if just realizing what she was doing. Her hand dropped to her lap, and she looked away. “Sorry.”
He should go, but he’d never be able to leave her in such a fragile state. “I’ll make ye tea for after yer shower.”
Her eyes closed and she sighed. “You’re so kind. You’d never hurt anyone.”
He looked away. He’d turned a deaf ear while men begged for their lives. He’d made them suffer until they pleaded for oblivion. “Everyone’s capable of hurting others.”
She frowned as if she doubted his words. “But you respect the word ‘no’.”
From her? Always. “You never have to fear me, Em’ry.” He’d always protect her.
“They give us these words, little, tiny things like no and stop. They tell us they’re weapons, but they’re useless. He hardly flinched when I screamed.”
His gut twisted. “You dinnae have te talk about it.”
“That’s the thing. I can’t stop thinking about it. He’s turned my body into a prison, and I’m stuck inside for the rest of my life. Soap isn’t going to wash this away.” She dropped her gaze, hiding her eyes. “I don’t want to be me anymore. I’m trapped in my skin, and all I want to do is escape myself.”
His heart broke. His hands lifted, seeking a place to hold, and hesitating. “You feel that way now, but I swear to you, this ache will heal.” He gently cupped her shoulders. “Your body is yours, Em’ry. Not his. Not anyone else’s. It may feel foreign right now, but it will become familiar again. You have to give yourself time, love.”
The breadth and depth of her injuries cut him open.
“You’re not what he’s done to ye, Em’ry.”
He had to believe that. Because, if she was the sum of someone else’s sins, he’d be the poison that infested the world.
Chapter Eighteen
Riordan Private Estate
Lower Whitecraigs, Edinburgh—Scotland
Four Years Prior
“Daughter?” Callan repeated.
Innis met his stare head-on, wearing the stone-cold certainty of a woman who knew her worth and dinnae appreciate having to spell out the facts of her life to anyone else.
“That’s right.” She glanced at Rhys who wore a shell-shocked mask.
Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1) Page 15