She tried to curl her fingers around the key, but she couldn’t get her hand to obey. Malachim solved the problem by reaching behind him with his other hand and forcing her fingers closed around the metal.
“Go. Now.”
Those were his last words as he charged forward in a move she’d seen performed by football players on television. His shoulders powered into the other man’s midsection, knocking them back several steps. Malachim untangled himself and took immediate advantage of his opponent’s momentarily winded state. With an enraged growl, he jabbed his fist into the larger man’s throat and followed it with a punch to the abdomen.
The assailant expelled a loud whoof, bending over at the waist, clutching his middle.
“Damn it, Danielle!” Malachim whipped his head around, pinning her with fervent glare. “I said go!”
His snapped order melted her paralysis.
She backpedaled, nearly tripping over her own feet, intent on getting inside to call 911. Cursing, she steadied herself, pivoted—
A palm clamped over her mouth. Cruel fingers pressed into her cheek.
“Well, this is a pleasant turn of events,” a smooth, familiar voice crooned. “And here I thought it would be at least a couple of days before we enjoyed our reunion.” The cold burn of a muzzle kissed her temple. “But now we get to spend even more time together.”
Alex. Jesus Christ. Alex.
“Danielle!” Malachim roared, hurtling forward.
But his inattention cost him. Behind him, the thug raised a huge hand high above Malachim’s head. And slammed it down with a nauseating thud.
Malachim dropped to the ground.
Still as death.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Are you going to take care of that?” Gabe nodded toward the sullenly bleeding gash on Malachim’s forehead over his right eye as Gabe, Rafe, and Chay piled into his foyer.
Malachim pressed the cloth he’d grabbed from the bathroom over the cut that had reopened when the fucker who’d helped snatch Danielle sucker punched him.
“Later,” he snapped. Later, after they found her. After she was back in his home, safe. He’d only been out a matter of minutes, but it’d been long enough for Alex Rainier and his “help” to disappear with Danielle. His stomach clenched, twisted. And he had to fight back the howl that clawed at his throat, demanding to be released. “Rafe, I need you to pull up the footage from the security camera and see if you can find anything.”
“On it.” Rafe raced down the hall toward Malachim’s home office with Gabe, Chay, and him fast in his wake. Panic pounded in his blood, rushed in his ears. Terror writhed inside him; he could barely think past its black, suffocating grasp. It packed his lungs, clogged his throat. The sheer power of the emotion overpowered the pain in his abused body. Adrenaline handled the rest. At some point, he’d probably crash and be unable to move for a week, but that time wasn’t now. Not with Danielle still out there and at the mercy of her psychopathic ex-husband.
Rafe entered the office, rounded the wide desk, and dropped into the office chair. Within seconds he had the computer booted up, and his fingers flew across the keyboard.
“That camera mounted above your door should’ve captured whatever happened in front of your house.”
Hope surged hard and bright inside him.
“Here it is.” Another click of a finger to the keyboard and a startling clear image popped onto the computer monitor. Even though the footage was color, the late hour and dim lighting along the street cloaked the picture in variations of grays, blacks, and browns. Malachim and Danielle came into view, hurrying across the sidewalk. His heart lurched, twisted.
He barely contained the fury, terror, and pain coalescing in a dense, swirling orb, growing bigger and bigger until he almost burst as the fight and kidnapping played out in front of them on the computer monitor. Gabe whistled as the bruiser he’d fought knocked him to the ground, and Alex struck a straining and twisting Danielle in the temple with the butt of a gun. Malachim’s body bucked as if he’d been struck. Again.
Seconds later, Danielle, limp and out cold, disappeared from the frame in Alex’s arms, and a dark sedan rolled past.
“Damn,” Gabe murmured. “You were kicking ass for a minute there.”
Malachim grunted as Rafe furiously tapped at the computer keys.
“Hold on a sec. Let me see if I can pull up a shot of the car’s license plate.” And an instant later, the screen contained a tight shot of the Massachusetts plate. “Gotcha, you bastard,” Raphael muttered. “Let me run outside and grab my laptop out of my car. We’ll have the information shortly.”
Gabe and Chay didn’t utter a word as Malachim paced the floor of the office, waiting for Rafe to return. As soon as he stalked through the door, black computer case in hand, all three of them gathered around Rafe as he lowered to the chair and booted up the laptop.
Rafe worked quickly, silently, fingers dancing across the keyboard, pulling up screens and entering codes that might as well as have been a dead language. Nerves and tension jumped underneath Malachim’s skin. He wanted to question Rafe, drill him on exactly what he was doing, what his plans were, and how much longer his search would take. But he remained quiet, knowing Rafe was doing all he could to find a lead.
“Got it,” Rafe growled. He glanced up, and the grim satisfaction in his voice was reflected in his dark blue gaze. “That license plate was registered to a car rental place. The only local branch is located at Logan. I hacked their system, and it shows they rented that particular vehicle to a Matthew Rilliard, who paid with a credit card.”
“You are one scary motherfucker,” Gabe muttered, shaking his head.
“Matthew Rilliard?” Chay frowned. “Who the hell is that?”
“Dunno,” Rafe said. “Could be an alias or someone who’ll find out he’s a victim of identity theft when his next statement cycles. Anyway, I cracked the credit card company’s system and tracked the purchase made in the last week with this card number. Gas stations, fast food places, and motels. The card was used to check into a hotel downtown two nights ago.”
Malachim was already circling the desk and heading toward the office door. “You have the address?”
“Got it,” Rafe said from behind him. “Let’s go.”
Rushing down the hall toward the front door, Malachim whipped his cell phone from his pocket. He tapped in a number he’d committed to memory the day before. The line rang three times before a slightly gravel-roughened voice answered.
“Detective Rider, this is Malachim Jerrod. We met at the hospital several days ago after Patrick Duncan was shot.” He paused. “I need your help.”
…
Darkness.
It seemed as if she’d been in the stygian void for days instead of hours. It swallowed her in its black depths, and not for the first or tenth time, Danielle forced back the cloying pressure of claustrophobia, fought drowning under its heavy, crushing weight.
When she’d first come to, head pounding, and realized she’d been locked in a dark bathroom, a keening wail had originated from that tortured place where nightmares slept during daylight. She’d slid along the wall searching for the light. The precious, sanity-restoring light. But frantic flickering of the switch hadn’t brought illumination, and Danielle had sunk to the floor, the blackness pressing in on her from all sides, slithering over her skin, slinking around her neck. Slowly smothering her.
Suddenly, she’d been eleven years old, trapped in a dark, stifling room. Under her palms, the tile had become supple, doughy flesh. The fragrant deodorizer soured into the cloying, meaty scent of waste and death. For a second, out of the dark beamed two blank, lifeless eyes like pale blue marbles.
Her mother. Waxy and still. Her mouth, slack and open. Her once beautiful features frozen in the tortured death throes of a drug overdose. Her sightless gaze boring through her in a plea for help that was forever beyond her.
Alex had done this to her before. Locked her in a bla
ck closet, stolen the light bulb so the memories and the fear could crush her, break her.
Then, she’d screamed until hoarse animal whimpers had scraped her throat raw. This time, though, she trapped the cries behind her teeth and swallowed them rather than give Alex the satisfaction of hearing her terror.
Damn him. Damn his punishments. And damn his rules.
She was stronger than that…stronger than him.
He’d forged this new woman—Danielle Warren—in the inferno of his rages and fists. But she’d strengthened that woman. Maybe out of desperation, at first. But then out of a will to survive, to taste freedom. To live…and love…again without fear.
She refused to revert back to scared, defenseless Elena Rainier; she’d come too far, had risked too much. Others had sacrificed too much.
This was her life. A soft, scuffling noise, like a chair scraping a floor, alerted her to movement on the other side of the door. She inched up the wall, slowly rising to her feet. The ache in the side of her head throbbed, but she ground her teeth against the pain and shoved it to the back of her mind. Alex was a predator; he’d note, catalogue, and exploit every weakness, every advantage that gifted him with the upper hand. A pistol to the head had assured him of one leg-up. But he would need more than that chicken-shit move if he believed she would just fall to her knees and beg for his mercy and forgiveness.
Four years of marriage had taught her a brutal and permanent lesson: Alex had none.
The door swung open and light streamed into the bathroom. She blinked, rapidly trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. In gradual degrees, the large dark form in the entrance sharpened, becoming her ex-husband.
“Good. I see you’re awake.” The amicable tone was a familiar weapon in his arsenal often employed to disarm her, ease her into complacency before he struck. “How’s your head?” he asked.
“Fine.” Hurting like hell, but she’d pass out at his feet before admitting it.
He cocked his head to the side. “Hmm. You never were a very good liar, Elena.”
“Danielle,” she corrected, pushing away from the wall.
“Please.” He scoffed. “I refuse to call you by that ridiculous name. Now come out so we can talk. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other.” His voice lowered. “And I’ve missed you.”
A shiver rocked through her body. That tone—she recognized it. Dreaded it. The dulcet, husky note promised pain, humiliation…and pleasure—his.
Alex shifted away from the door, and she stole forward, studying his face and body language. When in the vicinity of a rattling snake, a person had to be cautious, wary, and ready to move at the slightest provocation.
She emerged into a pretty, well-appointed bedroom. Her gaze skimmed the elegant furnishings, yet all of her focus was on her ex-husband who leaned against a cherry wood dresser, ankles and arms crossed, a pleasant smile curving his mouth.
Jail hadn’t diminished his grace and handsomeness. Maybe added a bit of an edge to the eagle-eyed sharpness in his narrowed eyes and more definition to the high cheekbones. Last time she’d seen him, he’d reminded her of a sheathed blade—the danger concealed until provoked. But now, the knife was out, honed, not bothering with a façade of momentary safety. Jail had stripped away the veneer of cultured refinement. She faced the cold, lethal beauty beneath.
He shook his head, indulgent disappointment softening his expression. “I’m afraid you don’t look well. This past year must have been so hard on you. Why don’t you change into something respectable instead of those”—he flicked a glance down her body, his light sneer telegraphing his disdain of her sweater and jeans—“rags? And then join me for breakfast in the dining area.”
An argument perched on the tip of her tongue, but at the last moment, she stifled it. Pick your battles. Time is to your advantage. She heeded the advice. The longer she could stall, the odds of Malachim realizing something had gone wrong increased. Please let him find that sneaker. Kicking off the shoe had been a split-second decision, and she prayed to God it panned out. But in the meantime, she couldn’t depend on him for her survival. Her life was her responsibility. She had to be dragon-slaying knight as well as damsel in distress.
Alex stared at her, and she fought not to fidget under his unwavering scrutiny. But whatever he glimpsed in her demeanor must have momentarily satisfied him, because he straightened and strolled for the bedroom door.
“Don’t keep me waiting, Elena,” he drawled, pulling the door open. “We have much to discuss.” And he left. The click of the lock engaging reverberated through her. She exhaled, her heart playing a drum solo against her sternum.
Only when she detected the heavy fall of his feet growing fainter did she glance at the bed and the clothes arranged on the white covers.
Horrified recognition slammed into her, and she stumbled several steps before catching her balance.
“Oh, God.” Her clothes. The simple but expensive winter white pants and jewel green silk shirt had been one of Alex’s favorite ensembles for her to wear when they entertained. He’d even laid out the jade necklace, earrings, and bracelets as well as the cream stilettos. Had he saved her things all this time? Had he been so certain he’d find her again, force her back to Birmingham and his home where he believed she belonged?
Nausea roiled in her stomach. Calm. Don’t lose it. You can’t afford to lose it now.
With halting steps, she neared the bed. Even though her skin crawled as she drew the silk and wool over her body, she didn’t falter. They’re just a costume for the biggest, most important charade of your life. After donning the jewelry and shoes, she quickly searched the room for anything she could use as a weapon. Palms damp, fingers shaking, she opened dresser drawers and closet doors. Too much time and Alex would return. She glanced at the bedside table and couldn’t contain the small whimper of relief and joy. A silver letter opener engraved with the hotel’s logo sat on top of its stationary. The opener was small, the tip dull. But damn, it would have to do. With enough force, it could pierce skin, inflict injury. Breath heaving in and out of her chest, she tucked the makeshift weapon in the deep pocket of her pants, arranging the slender pleat so it concealed the shape.
Moments later, she exited the bedroom into a small sitting area. Her heels were silent as she walked over the carpeted floors, and she forced herself to slow, take cautious and thorough measure of her surroundings. Obviously, a hotel suite. Maybe a lease-by-the-week type of residence traveling businessmen rented, but an upscale one as a gas fireplace glowed on one wall of the sitting area that opened into an equally tiny dining area. Slivers of light sneaked through sturdy blinds, enough for her to deduce it was early morning.
The tiny hairs on the nape of her neck jolted to attention. A shiver skittered down her spine. Slowly, she turned.
“Perfect,” Alex crooned from his seat at the dining room table. He stood, his intent gaze inspecting her from head to toe. His mouth firmed on the return trip as his scrutiny settled on her hair. Damn. Her stomach dipped, rolled. She’d forgotten how much he hated her hair out and loose; he preferred it tamed, restrained.
“I didn’t have anything with me to tie my hair back,” she said, before his displeasure escalated.
The lines between his eyes eased, his smile returning. “I forgot to leave that, didn’t I? Here.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a clasp. Another relic from her past life.
She crossed the distance separating them and plucked the trinket from his palm, careful not to touch his skin.
“Thank you,” she murmured. With sure, deft hands she gathered her curls and secured them at the nape of her neck.
“Beautiful, Elena,” he whispered. “Sit here.” He removed a chair from under the table and waited for her to sink into the seat.
Loath to give him her back, she didn’t have much of a choice but to sit and hope he didn’t assault her from behind. But whatever his plans, they didn’t appear to include a blitz attack at the breakfast table, for he li
ghtly pushed in her chair and returned to his own. Underneath the table, she adjusted the letter opener so the tip didn’t poke her in the thigh.
Fluffy eggs, crisp bacon, cut and cubed pieces of cantaloupe and strawberries filled the plate in front of her. And they might as well as have been rotten and moldy for all the appeal they contained. Her throat tightened, and her belly convulsed at the thought of ingesting even a bite.
“Eat, Elena,” Alex ordered, picking up his fork and knife.
“I’m not hungry,” she said, sliding her hands in her lap. Her elbow nudged the weapon in her pocket.
In an instant, his eyes slitted, glittering beneath his lowered dark eyebrows. His thin nostrils flared, and the wide mouth flattened. Terror swelled inside her, threatened to overwhelm her at the telltale signs of his rising temper. Like Pavlov’s dogs, her fight-or-flight instinct clanged at the warnings. Before she could prevent it, she shrank into the chair back. Only when a hint of triumph flickered in his gaze did she recognize her error. Like a shark, he detected blood. And it wouldn’t be long before he zeroed in and attacked.
She thrust her chair back and shot from the table. Space. She needed space. And the sudden move would’ve thrown Alex off guard. Both would work in her favor.
“Get back here,” he barked, rising and following her into the sitting room. “Elena.”
“Why are you doing this, Alex?” she asked, edging closer to the sofa and placing the sturdy furniture between them. As she talked, she toed the stilettos from her feet, pushing them to the side and out of her way. “Why can’t you just let me go?”
“Let you go?” Alex tsked, shaking his head as he advanced on her, a lion stalking its unwary prey. “In just a year, did you forget rule number one? You’re mine, Elena. Neither a divorce paper, a jail cell you put me in, nor distance will ever change that.”
“So what’s your plan?” Her gaze fell to his twitching fingers, and for a second she could feel the cruel, agonizing pain of them wrapped around her throat, squeezing until death hovered above her, a ghostly specter waiting to swoop in and claim her. Unbidden, she circled the base of her neck, rubbing the as yet unmarked skin. “Force me to return with you? How would that make you look? Accepting the woman who charged you with domestic abuse back into your home? No one would believe it.”
Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) Page 22