The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  The ping-swish of the elevator doors startled her. Her heartbeat speeded up, but she didn’t turn around.

  “Thank God.”

  Brayden.

  No. Oh, no. Not like this. Not like this. Please.

  Christian pulled the blanket tighter, stared at the closed door and kept the bruised side of her face away. She had no idea what it looked like; she hadn’t wanted to see, but she could imagine.

  Footsteps neared. More than one.

  “Mr. Kinncaid. Mr. Kinncaid. And another one, I presume? If you don’t mind, we’d like a moment of your time,” Laurence tried. Christian felt the cop move to stand between her and them.

  “I do mind.” Then he was there, pulling her against him. “God, I’ve been worried sick. When I couldn’t get hold of you. When I couldn’t . . . I kept thinking about . . . What happened? All they said was that you were at Sibly. Something about an attack. And then you weren’t there. God, are you okay?”

  She could feel him trembling, or maybe it was her.

  It didn’t matter. She was dirty. Dirty. She pushed him away, brought the blanket up with her hands to shield her face.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him raise his hand, and she stepped away.

  His hand hovered there. “Christian?”

  Silence settled around them. She was so cold, she couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Let’s go inside,” Gabe said.

  Brayden didn’t care about going inside. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. When he’d seen her standing there between the cops, relief had rushed through him. She was okay. She was fine.

  But as he’d gotten closer, he noticed the posture of the cops, guarding—hers, tightened. The changed hair color, a burnished blonde-brown color. And the relief slid away into worry.

  She stood there, trembling before him, her head bowed in the blanket.

  “Christian?”

  Still she didn’t lower the blanket and Brayden didn’t move.

  Slowly, he reached up to the bunched material hiding her from him.

  Her head shook back and forth, but she didn’t jerk away.

  “Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me,” she whispered. If he weren’t standing so close, he wouldn’t have heard her.

  “Christian.” Carefully, he pulled her hands down.

  Her head was still bowed. He saw the white butterfly bandage on her forehead, the dark bruise contrasting around it, the large knot bumping under the contused skin.

  With one hand, he crooked a finger under her chin, noticed her stiffen, pull into herself. What had happened?

  “Look at me.”

  She shook her head.

  “Baby, look at me.”

  Her eyes slowly rose to his and he felt his world tilt, quake and shatter.

  “Jesus.” The entire right side of her face was bruised, swollen and red. Dark purple marks colored her jawline. Gently, he moved her chin to the side. Her lip was swollen and split.

  He heard Aiden’s in-drawn breath, Quinlan’s curse.

  “What the hell happened?”

  The hands, hidden beneath the blanket, held in one of his, started to shake. The trembles shook her entire frame, until she quaked violently.

  “Bray, let’s go inside. Get her inside and sit her down before she passes out,” Aiden said.

  Her eyes wouldn’t meet his and she ducked her head. He shifted out of the way as Aiden unlocked the door, wrapping one arm around her.

  Still holding her hands in one of his, he pulled her closer and walked her into their apartment.

  He cupped her arm with one hand to steer her to the couch, but at her grimace he let go.

  She stopped and stepped away from him, looking at the floor. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  A shower? He reached out to her, but she stepped further away.

  “D-don’t. I’m dirty. Please don’t—don’t touch me.”

  The words sank home, the possible meaning behind them. No. No. God, no.

  Christian turned to walk to her bedroom and stopped. She stood in front of the hallway mirror. He saw her reflection, the shock on her face. Her trembling hand rose to her hair.

  “Look,” she whispered. “Look.”

  He was and his stomach pitched at the bruises on her face, her swollen eye. An accident?

  I’m dirty . . . don’t touch me.

  Brayden swallowed.

  The bandage around her wrist flashed at him. White against white skin. Her other hand came up and the blanket dropped.

  Holy Mother of God.

  Her neck was scratched and scraped. A bandage wrapped around both wrists and her upper arm.

  “Look at my hair,” her voice trembled. Tears trickled over her cheeks.

  “Honey, it’s okay. It’s fine,” Aiden said calmly from behind him.

  Brayden didn’t give a damn about her hair, it was the rest of her, abraded and bruised, that shook him, made him fist his hands at his sides.

  Her eyes rose to his, then locked on Aiden. “It’s not fine.”

  Brayden saw the fear, the anger in the gray depths.

  “It’s not fine!” Her fingers ran through her discolored hair. “He—he did this.” Her eyes looked back to the mirror, to herself. “He—he—he . . . Oh, God.” She swayed.

  Brayden moved and caught her before she crumpled to the floor.

  Rage pounded through him. Disbelief warred with the bruised and battered woman in his arms. Her body shook so badly, so deeply, he wondered that her bones didn’t snap.

  “Who?” He held her, gentled his voice even though he wanted to yell.

  She stiffened, pushed away from him. “Don’t—don’t touch me. Don’t. I’m dirty. I have to take a shower. I have to get him off. I can’t . . . I don’t . . .”

  He reached out, but dropped his hands back when she shook her head and stepped away. All he could do was watch helplessly as she took small steps to the door of her rooms. He fisted his hands at his sides until they shook, bit down till his teeth hurt.

  At her door, she stopped. Without turning, she asked, “Could—could you get me—get me some clothes?”

  Brayden could see her trembling from here. “Anything. Anything you want. Anything you need.”

  She nodded. “Clothes. I need some clothes. He—he . . . I need some.”

  With that, she shut her door and he heard the lock slide home, click back open, then slide home again.

  Brayden stood staring at the door, refusing to see the picture her voiced and unspoken words painted.

  He moved his jaw back and forth, grinding his teeth. Taking a deep breath, he turned to see the cops standing in his foyer. Aiden paced by the couch. Quinlan stood by a chair.

  He asked Morris, “What the hell happened?”

  Morris rolled his head on his neck, his jaw moving side to side as he walked toward Brayden. His eyes narrowed. With no warning, Morris threw a punch, catching him right on the jaw.

  Brayden shook his head, the pain not registering.

  “Morris? Are you insane?” the female officer asked.

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Aiden added. “Interesting way to help your career.”

  Brayden’s gaze locked on Morris’s dark one.

  “You don’t deserve her. Damn you. Why the hell did you leave her alone?” Morris bit out. “You showed up at her place last night, middle of the damn night. You saw her then. You know she was afraid. How could you just leave her alone?”

  “Gabe. Calm down.” Stepping between them, the short woman held her hand out. “I’m Detective Laurence.”

  Brayden barely spared her a look, but when he did, he asked, “I want to know what the hell happened and I want to know now.”

  • • •

  The scalding water filled the bathroom with so much steam she couldn’t see herself in the mirror. Just as well. She didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to see the bruises, the cuts, the marks he left on her.

  She didn’t want to see Josephi
ne staring back at her.

  The skin on her arms was pink, almost raw from the pumice stone she’d used, and the entire bar of soap.

  And still she scrubbed. The water heated her already reddened skin.

  She’d taken off the wet gauze from her wrists. The spray bit into the raw skin, stinging at first, until it grew numb.

  Water ran off her hair, down her face. She stared at the cream tiles, the steam so thick on them, water trailed down.

  What was she going to do?

  . . . first will be Brayden, and his little girl . . .

  Oh, God. What did she do?

  A sob choked her, tore out of her throat.

  She leaned back, slid down the wet wall. With her knees to her chest, she bowed her head and tried to stop the tears that washed away her shame as uselessly as the hot water beating unmercifully down on her.

  Chapter 8

  Brayden paced outside her door, down the hallway and back.

  He looked up and regarded the other men in the room. Aiden stared out the window, Quinlan poured another drink at the bar. The cops were on the couches.

  A heavy silence cloaked everyone.

  This couldn’t be happening. Not to her, not to Christian.

  Morris filled them in. Aggravated attempted rape, from preliminary tests, with a deadly weapon. Then there were the drugs in her system. They’d have to wait on lab results to verify, but apparently Gabe had showed up before the bastard had . . . had . . .

  Brayden stopped, shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes. But the black images danced behind his eyelids.

  Tied to the damn bed, like a fucking animal.

  Rage and fury roared through him, beating him into a red haze. Blindly, he swung out and punched the wall. The drywall gave with a satisfying thud against his knuckles.

  He bit down on his clawing temper and leaned his forehead against the wall.

  He’d failed her. Him and his stupid twisted pride, his questioning sense of what was between them. He should have stayed in town. Should have driven by and picked her up. Should have made certain she was okay. While she was beaten and terrorized, he’d been playing with his daughter.

  “Bray.”

  He opened his eyes, straightened and turned. Aiden had come away from the window, and stood not far away.

  His gaze locked onto his brother’s. As if to no one in particular, he bit out, “I want this bastard found.”

  The message passed between them, unspoken yet heard. He saw Aiden’s barely discernible nod.

  “Brayden,” Aiden said, “he will be. I’m sure the police are doing everything they can.”

  The police. He looked over to the couch and nodded curtly to Morris.

  “Bray, she needs you right now. She needs all of us, but you more than anyone. Don’t let your anger at this bastard scare her into a corner,” Quinlan told him. “She needs you.”

  Why was it the youngest was the most levelheaded? Quin was right, but the anger and fury roared within Brayden. It wasn’t often he lost his temper. He’d learned early on that large males and tempers often gave the wrong impression. But right now he wanted to rip something apart with his bare hands. Preferably the man who had done this.

  Sighing, he rubbed his hands over his face.

  “You saw no one, Lieutenant?” Aiden asked Morris.

  Morris, to give the man credit, seemed to care more than was professionally necessary. And thank God for that. If he hadn’t . . .

  “Do you think I would be sitting here wanting to talk to her, make her go through it all again, if we had something to go on?” Morris answered, his voice steeled on the edge of anger.

  Brayden looked at her door, then at his watch—over an hour. She’d been in there over an hour.

  The phone rang.

  “Mom,” Quinlan said.

  He hoped not. Brayden strode to the phone and answered on the second ring, “Hello?”

  “Did you find her?”

  How the hell had Quinlan known? Brayden sighed and thought about what to say, what not to say.

  He scratched his head. “Yeah, Mom, we—uh—yeah, we found her.”

  “Oh, thank God. Your father and I are worried sick. Becky said a Lieutenant Morris called here looking for you. Tori and Ryan were asking questions, and Gavin and Taylor are trying to keep us all calm. But I know . . .” His mother’s voiced trailed off. “I know something happened. Tell me she’s okay.”

  Lie or truth? Closing his eyes, he did something he’d rarely done to his mother. He lied.

  “She, uh, she will be, Mom. There was a bit of a . . .” He sighed. “She’ll be okay.”

  “Oh, my God! What happened?”

  Brayden bit down, ran his bottom lip between his teeth. Quickly he said, “We’re not really sure, Mom.”

  “We’ll be there . . .”

  “No!” he all but yelled. Then more calmly, “No, we’ll be home later, she wants to come home,” he said, not knowing if she did or not. “The police are still asking a few questions.”

  “The police?”

  “Mom, please just stay there. We’re coming home as soon as this is all wrapped up.”

  She sighed on the other end and he knew she was trying to read what he’d said and what he hadn’t.

  “Let me talk to Christian,” she said.

  He rolled his neck. “She’s in the shower. She had a few scrapes and bruises. When she gets out, there are some questions that need clearing up and then . . . Then we’ll head out there.”

  “What exactly happened to her?” she carefully asked.

  Hell.

  “I—it. Mom, the police are still here talking to us, we’ll call when we head up there.” He needed to get off. “I’ll call you back in a bit. Bye, Mom.”

  With that, he hung up and puffed out a sigh.

  “Grown men lying to their mother. Do you boys do this a lot?” Laurence asked.

  “She can’t speak to them, Mom is worried and you are here still wanting answers. What part of that is a lie?”

  “Mom would disagree,” Aiden answered for them. “But for now, it served its purpose. Mother would worry and descend.”

  Silence settled again.

  Brayden’s gaze landed on the bag from the downstairs boutique. Quinlan had run down and grabbed something. Brayden hadn’t wanted to leave the apartment. He walked to the bag and picked it up.

  Maybe she was done and needed her clothes.

  He looked back at the door. Was she all right? Well, no, but he was worried about her. At her door, he knocked. No one, nothing.

  Again he knocked. “Christian?”

  Still nothing, and his feeling that something was wrong grew.

  This time he knocked harder.

  “I could go in and check on her, if you want me to,” Laurence volunteered, standing behind him.

  He almost handed her the bag and agreed. But he didn’t. He needed to see Christian, see she was all right.

  Shaking his head, he turned back to the door and drew his master key out of his pocket. The family suites were designed so that the front door key could open any door in that apartment.

  On a deep sigh, he slid the key across the lock and opened the door.

  The bedroom was dim and silent. Carefully, he shut the door and set the bag on the bed.

  “Christian?”

  Silence greeted him, or almost silence. He could hear the hum of the built-in heater in the bathroom and the spray of water.

  He raised his fist to knock on the bathroom door then lowered it, shoving his hand into his pocket. Perhaps she needed the time alone. But he’d left her alone before, stepped back, and look what he’d allowed to happen.

  The water sprayed in a constant uninterrupted stream.

  He frowned at the door, ran a hand through his hair.

  If she were in the shower, wouldn’t he hear the change in the water?

  Pausing, he raised his hand, then took a deep breath and knocked. “Christian?”

  No
thing.

  He tried the knob, it was locked.

  “Baby, are you . . .” He trailed off. Of course she wasn’t okay. “Do you need anything?” he asked against the door.

  Not a muted sound drifted from within.

  He didn’t want to invade her privacy. One last time he tried knocking. “Your clothes are out here.”

  Still not a single sound.

  He stared at the door, then turned to go, but stopped. She might hate him, but be damned, he had to know she was all right in there.

  He pulled his key out again, unlocked the bathroom door, and pushed it open. “Chris . . .”

  Thick hot steam rolled out, engulfing him. It was hotter than a sauna in here. The room was a muted wall of heated mist; most of it escaped out the open door.

  “Christian?”

  Still no answer. His heart slammed in his chest. The water ran ceaselessly. The bathroom was empty.

  “Christian?” he asked louder, striding to the shower stall.

  She wasn’t in there. Fear shot through him and he jerked the door open. Hot stinging spray splattered out on him.

  She was curled on the bottom of the tiled floor. Mumbling a curse, he reached in through the scalding water and shut it off.

  Her skin was bright pink and heated as he touched her.

  She didn’t even flinch as he stepped into the shower and scooped her up against him.

  “Oh, baby. Come on. It’s going to be all right. You’re safe now.”

  The heat and water from her soaked through his shirt. She slumped in his arms, boneless. Holding her close to him, he reached out and grabbed her robe hanging by the shower.

  For a moment he looked around, then sat on the toilet, with Christian on his lap.

  He leaned her head back, her eyes were closed. Fear slammed through him. Didn’t she have a concussion?

  “Christian?” Reaching to the side, he grabbed a washcloth and soaked it with cold water. Gently, he feathered it over her face, careful of the bump on her head, her swollen, already blackening eye. He bit down at the sight of her abused face.

  Still she didn’t stir.

  “Christian, baby, talk to me.” He placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “You’re scaring me here. Come on.”

  She was hot, too hot. He kept up his nonsensical words. “I bet you just got overheated.”