The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  A moan drifted passed her lips and her eyelids fluttered, though only one rose. He rubbed the cool cloth over her neck.

  Her eye stared at him, but she didn’t stiffen as he expected her to.

  He sat the cloth on the counter and gathered her robe up. “Can you stand, just for a second? I want to put this on you.”

  Her gray stare was blank. As easily as possible, he shifted her so that they were both standing. He held her up with one arm and tried to put the robe on with the other.

  His gaze ran over her, her body that haunted his dreams, a body he loved. One that should be cherished, cared for . . . protected.

  Now, bruises darkly contrasted against her pale skin. Some part of him catalogued the damage someone had inflicted on her, but a red haze threatened the edge of his vision, blacked the border of his sanity and temper.

  Christian didn’t need his rage.

  Taking a long breath through his nose, he studied her. The entire right side of her rib cage was shadowed, one large bruise covering several ribs. He gently reached out and ran a hand over them; her stomach muscles tightened under his fingers.

  “Sorry.” He took his hand away, but looked at her. “Are they broken?”

  Her eyes looked away and she shook her head.

  Round purple marks marred her upper arm, just above a cut. He’d seen the cuts on her thigh, the blackened stitches obscene against her pale skin.

  Biting down, he shoved the air out of his lungs. As carefully as possible, he helped her put the robe on. He tied it gently, mindful of her bruised ribs. Then he noticed the marks at the collar of the robe. He traced the violet contusions along her jaw and neck, the reddened cuts on both sides, heavier at the back. What the hell was that from?

  She didn’t move, didn’t look at him. With every new mark, bruise, and laceration he discovered, fury roiled his blood.

  Finally, he dropped his hands away from her and turned so that she sat on the toilet. She swayed for a moment, but then leaned back. He stood there, staring at her.

  What the hell did he do to help her? How could he . . . What was there . . . Did she even . . .

  On a silent curse, he flicked the water back on and filled a glass. He held it up to her lips. “You need some liquids in you.”

  She drank the entire glass down.

  When she lowered her hands, a hiss escaped her. Brayden knelt beside her.

  “What? What is it?” he asked quietly.

  Christian shook her head, but mumbled, “My wrists. The robe hurts my . . .” She trailed off.

  Brayden reached out and took her fine-boned hand. Carefully, he pushed the cuff of her terry robe up.

  The abraded and peeling skin was scabbed in places, purples mixing with blues, reds, and mottled yellows. A glance down showed him her ankles with the same violent marks.

  “Christ.” All he could see when he looked at those wounds was her tethered and struggling, trying to escape.

  On another curse he rose, all but ripped a drawer out of the vanity.

  He shoved things out of the way and tried the next drawer. There was a box of bandages and a tube of antibacterial ointment.

  Again he knelt in front of her.

  His hands shook as he applied the clear cream to the bandage. Then he wrapped the white gauze around her wrists. When they were taped, he stared at her hands.

  Ankles. He reached for one ankle, but she pulled it back.

  “I can do it,” she whispered.

  The control on his emotions almost snapped. “Let me—” Biting down, he held his hands palms out to her and slowly rose. Looking at her bent head, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, or anything like that.”

  Damn it all to hell. What did he do? How did he help her?

  She nodded, though she still didn’t raise her eyes to his. “I know that. Thank—thank you for . . .”

  “Don’t,” he said through his teeth.

  This time her face rose to his, and though he knew what he’d see, his breath still caught in his chest, his blood still froze in his veins. He’d kill the bastard.

  Her one good eye looked at him, confusion clear in its gray depth.

  “Do not thank me. For God’s sake, Christian.” He paced away from her toward the door, fisted his hands and shoved them in his pockets to keep from ripping something apart. “Do not thank me. I didn’t do shit. I didn’t . . .” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re so precious and I can’t stand the thought of how hurt you are.”

  Christian sat there looking at him. Her face hurt. Hell, her entire body ached, pulled and jerked.

  Brayden stood before her, hands balled in his pockets. Such a tall man, proud and strong. The lines on his face were hard and unforgiving.

  When his eyes opened, her breath caught again at the storming rage lighting his eyes from within.

  “I should have . . . I wasn’t . . . Damn it all to hell,” he finished on a sigh. “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw, the corners of his mouth tight, and then she saw the shine in his eyes and something inside her squeezed.

  “I want to fix this and I’m afraid to get too close to you.”

  Her heart dropped. She had told him she was dirty. Shame came in a hard, fast wave.

  “I’m afraid I’ll scare you. I don’t want to scare you,” he said softly. “I just want to . . . to . . . to . . .”

  “To what?” she asked.

  She saw him swallow; his jaw moved back and forth. “I want to hold you and tell you everything’s going to be okay. I want to take all your pain away. I want to go back to this morning and . . .” He stopped and shook his head. “I don’t want to frighten you. I never want to frighten you. I don’t want you to hurt anymore, in any way.”

  Relief crested and rolled in her. She shook her head. “I could never be scared of you, Bray. Never.”

  The muscle bunched in his jaw, once, twice, and again. Slowly, he walked to her. He stood in front of her, but she didn’t look up, instead stared at the silver buckle of his belt. His knees popped when he squatted back down so that he was at eye level with her. Gently, he reached up and cupped her face, his thumb caressing her cheek with the softest touch. Carefully, he leaned forward and kissed her hair. When he straightened, his gaze locked with hers.

  His eyes said it all. Determined fury mixed with the promise of retribution. His voice roughened over the words, “What can I do? What do you need?”

  Christian took a deep trembling breath. “Clothes. I need some clothes.”

  “They’re out on the bed.” Quickly, he rose, turned, and in seconds he was back holding out a bag from downstairs.

  She held the bag on her lap.

  “Do you need some help?” he asked.

  Christian shook her head.

  Still he stood there a few feet away. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Morris and his partner are still here.” A beat passed. “They want to talk to you. But if you’d rather wait until tomorrow or another time, that’s fine and we’ll just go home.”

  Home. She closed her eyes. What to do? She still had no answers.

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll—I’ll talk to them,” she said softly. Oh, God, please help her.

  “Okay. Why don’t I wait out here in the bedroom while you get ready. I don’t want you falling over and hitting your head or something.”

  “No, I need some things out of the bedroom. You go on ahead.”

  “What do you need, I’ll get them?”

  She told him and listened as he rummaged in a drawer and brought back her underwear. The sounds reminded her of earlier and she jumped when he came back in.

  Instead of bringing them to her, he said, “I’ll put them here on the counter.”

  She could only nod as she waited. Finally, the door clicked shut.

  Slowly, she rose. Without looking in the mirror, she dressed in the charcoal chenille sweater and black pants from the b
ag. She’d have to forgo the bra he’d gotten from her armoire. It hurt to put it on. The sweater was a turtleneck and covered her from just below her ears to her thighs. Soft. Though the sweater was thick, it did little to warm her as the cold started to seep back into her bones.

  She pulled on the boots Bray had brought from her closet. For a moment she sat and stared at the black shoes and wondered when she’d purchased them. The thought seemed so stupidly important. On a sigh, she shrugged it off. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  Closing her eyes, she said aloud, but quietly, “I survived before and I’ll survive again.”

  A shiver danced down her spine. It could have been worse. Richard could have finished what he started. He could have actually raped her. The calls and photos were bad enough. But the whispers, the helplessness of it all, on top of all the buried memories . . .

  The trembling started again.

  “I am strong. I am strong. I—I—I am strong.” She nodded, wiped the tear from her eye, then stood and faced the mirror. The sight made her tremble.

  “I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay,” she repeated, hoping she would believe the mantra.

  But the woman staring back at her reminded her too much of a girl she’d tried to leave behind.

  Richard may have tried to break her, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. She might crack and tremble, shake and fear, but she would—not—break.

  • • •

  He sat in the terminal at Chicago O’Hare waiting for his next flight. It wouldn’t be too much longer.

  Carefully, he ran down the list of numbers he’d copied from her little black book he’d taken from her kitchen. Lists organized things, and hers was so unorganized.

  People worried about “valuable” possessions when there was a break-in, or credit cards when wallets and purses were stolen. They should be more worried about the personal items; one could learn from such simple things as an address book or a calendar.

  He now had every number, every place he could find her. He’d already known her schedule, though he would gamble that timetable would no longer hold.

  He knew who her doctor was and when she had her period. Women thought no one could figure out what the little xs meant for a week across the calendar.

  Richard chuckled. At least this way he knew when not to pay her a visit.

  So where would his angel be?

  Again he ran down the list of numbers.

  His finger tapped on the hotel. Glancing at his watch, he decided to wait a few minutes.

  Then he’d give her a call, just to let her know how much he enjoyed tonight.

  He grinned widely, and nodded to the woman across the way, who apparently thought he was smiling at her.

  The black book shut with a snap and he tossed it into the briefcase.

  He thought about the call, and knew just what he would say.

  • • •

  The cup of coffee warmed her palms. The boys had tried to get her to drink some tea, but she’d wanted coffee. She shifted on the couch again, the pull in her ribs catching her breath.

  Quinlan and Aiden stood off to the side somewhere. Brayden’s body next to hers was a warm comfort, and so was his arm across the back of the couch. Though at times, she stiffened at his touch. And she hated that, even as she couldn’t seem to help it.

  Gabe cleared his throat. “Christian, would you rather do this alone?”

  The black coffee jiggled when she jerked.

  “We’ll be in the kitchen,” Aiden said. She heard his steps mix with Quinlan’s across the hardwood floor.

  Brayden shifted, but she reached one hand out and laid it on top of his on his thigh. She looked at him. “Stay. Please.” Then she realized how he might not want to, so she added, “If you want to. If you don’t that’s . . .”

  “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere unless you ask me to go.” He turned his hand over and laced his fingers with hers.

  She didn’t know if she was more relieved or nervous. Taking a deep breath, she nodded, though she didn’t look at any of them.

  “Miss Bills,” Laurence said, “can you walk us through what happened? From the beginning?”

  The coffee cup jerked in her hand again, and she leaned up to set it on the coffee table, but hissed at the pull in her ribs. Brayden took it and set it aside.

  “I’ll try,” she told them.

  “What happened when you came home?” Laurence asked.

  Again she took a deep breath and started her story. Jerky at first, but smoother as the words came forth. She gave them what details she could without revealing too much.

  “You pulled the knife on him? From your own kitchen?” Gabe asked her.

  She nodded.

  “At any time during this encounter did you recognize him?” he asked.

  Christian looked down at her fisted hand. Until she knew what proof they had, it would do her no good. No good, except endanger those she loved. She’d gone to the police before, but there had been no proof, and what little there was had strangely disappeared. No, she had to wait. She couldn’t risk the Kinncaids . . . Brayden and his little girl . . .

  She closed her eyes and cleared her throat. “N-no. He was—he wore one of those black ski masks. I could see his eyes.” She could tell them that. “He had green eyes.”

  Scribbles filled the air from the two cops taking notes.

  “What about hair color and build?”

  She answered as best she could, detailed, yet vague.

  “Okay, you grabbed the knife, then what happened?”

  Her hand shook in Brayden’s and he tightened his hold on her. Licking her lips, she started again. With each word, she was aware of the man next to her tightening, coiling his energies, ready to strike out.

  “That’s it. That’s all I remember,” she said.

  “How long do you think you were unconscious?” Laurence asked softly.

  The cold had settled in her bones again, and Christian could feel the tremors start. “I—I don’t know. I don’t know.” Then she thought. “Long enough for him to do this.” She ran a hand through her hair.

  “All right, and as a bottle woman myself, I’d say that took at least twenty to thirty minutes. The sedative he gave you was more than likely for that purpose alone.”

  Christian didn’t look at the woman, just held on to Brayden’s hand.

  “Then what?” Gabe asked her.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what he did to me while I—while I . . . When I couldn’t.” She took a deep shuddering breath and wiped a tear from her cheek. “When I w-woke up. Things were foggy, fuzzy. I couldn’t focus.” She blew the breath out and whispered, “I—I was already . . . He’d already . . . I was tied down.”

  She brought her free hand up to shade her eyes, cursing the fear that roared like a clawing beast within her and the trembling of her voice.

  “Did he say anything?”

  Did he say anything? Oh, he said a whole hell of a lot. But she couldn’t tell them all that. Instead, she said, “I don’t—I don’t wan—want to talk about this anymore, please.”

  She bit down and wished the tears would stop.

  Brayden pulled her close and she felt his lips against her head. Even as she stiffened.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she whispered into his chest.

  The phone rang and she jerked, then moaned as pain shot from her bruised ribs.

  “Aiden, grab the phone!” Brayden hollered.

  It rang again and she only started.

  “I’m sure it’s Mom wanting to know—” Aiden started.

  “No!” Christian yelled, pushing back from Brayden, as Aiden reached to answer it. “No,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I don’t want her to know. Not yet. Not yet. Please.”

  Aiden looked at her as the phone rang a third time. “I won’t tell her, honey. Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “No, please.”

  “Just let the machine get it, then
you won’t have to lie to her,” Brayden volunteered.

  The machine clicked.

  Silence.

  Then a sigh.

  “The mouse ran to, and the mouse ran fro. Crying and squeaking: which way, which way. Didn’t matter, and the cat only smiled. For it was a fun game that the cat did play.”

  She could hear the smile in his calm voice. The trembles shook her and she gasped for breath.

  No. No. She shook her head back and forth.

  She heard Gabe, “Don’t answer that!” Saw Aiden freeze at the edge of her vision, and felt Brayden tighten his hold on her.

  “Tell me, did you like our game? Such a luscious body you still have.” He tsked. “I thought it ended much too soon. Till next time, my dear.”

  Brayden leapt off the couch. Christian alone heard that evil chuckle fill this safe place.

  Slapping her hands over her ears, she squeezed her eyes tight and rocked.

  He couldn’t hurt her, she was strong, she was strong.

  Brayden wrenched the phone up. “You’re dead, you son of a bitch. You better pray I never find you . . .”

  The man laughed in his ear. “Such passion.” Silence settled between them.

  “She is mine, Mr. Kinncaid. Mine. She always has been and she always will be. I’ll kill her before I let anyone else have her.”

  Brayden looked at the woman he loved rocking on the couch, curled into herself as if warding off a blow. “Over my dead body.”

  The man laughed. “That too can be arranged.” The line clicked in his ear.

  Brayden swore and threw the phone across the hall. His eyes met Aiden’s.

  “We’ll find him,” Aiden promised. He jerked his head toward the couch. “Get her out of here and go home. I’ll call the car downstairs for you.”

  Brayden walked to the couch and leaned down. Carefully, he picked her up and cradled her against his chest, feeling her body shake. He heard Quinlan and Aiden talking, their voices mixing with Morris’s and Laurence’s.

  Aiden walked with them to the elevators. “I’ll take your car on ahead and explain things. You two take the limo. You don’t need to worry about driving and she needs you.”

  Brayden nodded. The rest of the ride was silent save for Christian’s hurried breath against his chest.