by Pam Godwin
Out of compulsion, I slide a hand over his thigh. He grips it, trapping my palm against denim and muscle.
After a moment of wretched silence, Conor closes her eyes. “Will someone change the subject?”
Jake jumps in, redirecting the conversation into happier territory by announcing that the cattle operation will have its most profitable quarter in two decades.
As he talks, I finish off the dessert and squirm against the pressure in my bladder.
A hallway leads into the back, near the kitchen. The restrooms must be there.
“I need to use the lady’s room.” I move to stand.
Lorne tightens his grip on my hand, stopping me. “Wait until we’re home.”
“It’s a forty-five-minute drive.”
His jaw clenches, and he glares at the other patrons in the restaurant, as if they’re all concealing guns.
They probably are. I mean, we’re still in cattle country.
Blowing out a sharp breath, he adjusts his fingers around mine and rises from the table.
With my hand imprisoned in his, I follow him through the dining room and down the hallway. The tendons in his shoulders and neck are so taut they look like they’re going to snap.
He doesn’t stop at the door to the women’s bathroom. He shoves it open and hauls me inside.
A middle-aged woman stands at the sink, her eyes bulging at his reflection in the mirror.
“Get out,” he barks.
“I’m sorry.” I yank my hand from his and give her a grimace. “He didn’t take his meds today.”
She grabs her purse, walks a wide berth around him and darts out the door.
He swerves toward the stalls, checks each one, and wriggles the handle on the locked closet door. No windows. No bogeymen hiding in the toilets.
He prowls back to me, his gaze hard and threatening. He closes in and doesn’t just step into my personal space. He devours it.
His chest touches my nose, and the width of his shoulders blocks my view of everything behind him. Strong hands rest on the front of his jeans, thumbs hooked under the belt, fingers framing the metal buckle.
With his chin angled down, the black Stetson sits low on his brow, making his dark expression all the more darker.
I shiver. He’s brutally arresting and overwhelmingly intense. His meanness runs deep, but when he directs that malice at me, it’s always followed by remorse.
“You lash out at me when you’re upset.” I tilt my head back, searching his eyes.
“I lash out when I care.” He cups a hand beneath my chin, and his thumb feathers across my cheek. “I’m sorry for what I said at the house.” He sets his brow against mine. “You’re stunning, and I don’t want to share the pleasure of looking at you with anyone else.”
My breath catches. The next one comes out ragged, clawing at the air between us. “I won’t fall for your sweet talk.”
“You fell apart for it last night when I sweet talked your pussy.”
My nipples tighten, and a quiver races along my inner thighs. He wrecked me so thoroughly with that insatiable tongue I still feel him inside me.
“I’ll be right outside that door.” His thumb kisses my lips and slips away. “Then I’m taking you home.”
He steps out of the bathroom, leaving me standing in the lingering tingles of his touch.
I try to shake it off, but it sticks. He sticks. His words, his gaze, his captivating presence—he’s holding me under water without a breath of air.
My mind runs a marathon as I wander to the middle stall and empty my bladder.
Is it his confidence? His masculine beauty? His strength? John Holsten possesses all those traits, and it did nothing for me when we met.
I don’t understand what’s happening between Lorne and me, but I feel protective of it. The thought of never seeing him again fills my gut with ravenous protests.
Maybe it’s all the talk about weddings.
Maybe it’s the comfort of being included in such a tight family.
Maybe it’s just… Him.
The automatic flusher erupts as I finish. I swing open the door of the stall, head down, my fingers zipping and buttoning my shorts.
Something moves in my periphery. A sound near the last stall and…
The closet door is opening. Only it’s not a closet. A dimly lit, linoleum-lined corridor stretches out from the man bursting in.
White Stetson, dark scowl, and brown eyes I know horrifyingly well—all of it slams into me so fast I don’t have time to react.
John’s palm covers my mouth. His body pins me against the wall, and his other hand holds up a phone with something paused on the screen.
My pulse explodes as I rear back a fist to drive it into his upper lip.
“Your sister’s alive.” He presses his mouth against my ear. “Make a sound, and that will change.”
My heart stops. My insides ice over, and everything shuts down as an excruciating cry reaches for my throat. The gag of his hand presses harder, as if to trap my pain, but I’m already swallowing it down, hanging on his words, and pleading with my eyes.
She’s alive? Is it true? What about the death records? Were they fake?
He holds the screen of the phone to my face and starts a video of Tiana’s tiny body curled up in a hospital bed. A doctor walks into the camera view, and Tiana lifts her head, blinking huge brown eyes. Tubes snake around her. Sickness pales her skin, and long black hair clings to her three-year-old shoulders.
Four.
She would be four now.
He stops the video and pockets the phone. “When your mother drugged herself to the eyeballs, I moved Tiana to a safe place in Texas. She needs you.”
Another sob tries to burst free, and I gulp, and gulp again, fighting to keep silent.
His arm slithers around my back, tugging me against him as he holds my mouth.
“Not a sound,” he whispers. “We’re going to walk out of here without drawing attention. Through the kitchen. Right out the back door. I told Tiana you’re coming. Don’t disappoint her.”
My heart howls for her. My precious, innocent baby sister. It’s been so long since I’ve held her, kissed her, and smelled her sweet scent.
“If you fight me,” he breathes in my ear, “I’ll kill her for good this time.”
Defense techniques play on a reel in my head. Any one of the maneuvers would knock his hand from my mouth. My scream would alert Lorne and…
Tiana will die.
I blink up at John, at the handsome features that look so much like his sons. Very few lines crease his face, his eyes chillingly cold and lips curled back to bare the clench of his teeth.
The door he came through is shut. Twenty feet away, Lorne stands behind the other door. If I delay much longer, he’ll storm in to check on me.
Has John been watching me this whole time? Did he follow us from Sandbank and hang out in the service hall, waiting on a chance that I would enter the bathroom alone?
If Tiana’s alive, why did he tell me she was dead? Why remove the only leverage he held over me?
Because he didn’t need that leverage. Not when he could hold me in chains and torture me with lies.
My stomach turns with horror and hope. I can’t risk her life.
But what about Lorne? If I slip away quietly, he won’t believe I ran. He’ll know it was John, and he’ll blame himself for not protecting me.
“Ready to be a good girl and see your sister?” Fingers dig into my cheek as the other hand grips my breast and squeezes. “Fuck, Raina. You have no idea how much I missed you.”
Nausea threatens, watering my eyes. I shut out the memories and give him my gaze, shaking and breathless, heart in my mouth, begging for kindness. I need him to tell me Tiana’s okay, even if it’s just words. I need him to promise.
Except his promises are filth. He vowed to take care of her, swore she would receive a transplant and the best medical treatment.
I surrendered our lives for l
ies, cruel intentions, and manipulations.
As much as my entire being clings to the hope that she’s alive, I can’t be blinded by it. I can’t let him win.
Tears burn in the back of my throat as I nod.
“You’ll be quiet.” The hand against my mouth clenches and shoves, slamming my head against the tile wall. “Or she’s dead.”
Pain ricochets through my skull, and I nod again.
He uncurls his grip from my lips and quietly opens the door.
I wait until he steps into the hall. I wait until he leads me out with a possessive hand on my ass.
I wait until he convinces himself I’m going to cooperate.
Each step away from Lorne ratchets my blood pressure. My skin loses warmth. My stomach turns to lead, and a primal scream builds in my throat.
Ten steps from the bathroom, my nerves take over. My hand flies, and the heel of my palm crashes against his upper lip.
“Lorne!” I scream at the top of my lungs as my strike forces John’s head back. “Lorne! Lorrrrrrrne!”
John doesn’t stumble the way I expected. He’s too strong, too fucking relentless as he bows back into me. The look on his face is a death threat, signed in Tiana’s blood.
I throw myself at him with fists and teeth, heedless in my attempt to stop him from escaping.
A crash sounds in the bathroom. The door?
Please, please, please let it be Lorne.
John’s eyes dart toward the noise, and he pushes away with evil fuming in his black eyes.
I grip his shirt, and he whirls on me, ramming a fist into my gut so violently it feels like the slow rip of lining tearing away from my stomach.
I can’t breathe, can’t think past the pain.
“Raina!” Lorne bellows from the bathroom.
Don’t let John escape. Don’t let him get to Tiana.
The agony in my belly crashes me to my knees. I crawl, dragging my legs, reaching. But the monster’s already gone.
I’ve never felt so much rage. It bundles in my chest as I race toward the open closet. It flares through my fists at the sight of Raina crawling down a corridor I didn’t know existed. It incinerates my breaths as she grips her stomach and tries to stand.
I lurch to her side, but I can’t touch her. I’m shaking too badly, seething with the need to reduce the world to rubble.
“Was it John?” I stare down the empty hallway.
It veers off in multiple directions with no signs of danger and no clear shot of an exit.
“Yes.” She staggers to her feet and bends over in pain, hugging her waist.
He put his hands on her.
He fucking hurt her.
I roar with all the fury of a wildfire. Flames engulf my vision. Gasoline replaces my blood. I punch a hole in the wall and burst down the hall, burning to ignite everything I come in contact with.
“Which way?” I swing in all directions, scouring for a throat to carve open.
Raina stumbles forward and grips the wall, her face contorting in an expression she’s never worn. “Tiana…”
Tiana? What the fuck did he say about her sister?
“Which way?” My voice explodes like shrapnel in my ears.
She winces, and a sob tumbles out. Then more sobbing as she tries to speak. I can’t make out her distressed words, but I catch kitchen and back door.
I take off down the corridor, leaving her hurt and alone. Her cries chase me as she calls out her sister’s name. But I can’t comfort her, not right now, for what I’m feeling isn’t human.
As I stalk into the kitchen, someone steps into my path.
“Sir?” A server in a suit holds up his hands. “You can’t be in here.”
I knock him out of the way without a backward glance.
My insides twist and distort around the instinct to destroy. The knife from my boot warms my hand, and I don’t know how it got there. The boom of my heartbeat doesn’t sound like my own.
My wrath is a soulless executioner, stretching beneath my skin, tightening, scorching, and ordering me toward the slaughter.
I weave around employees and steel tables, searching, hunting, eyes fully open, and posture bowing into the flames of violence.
Then I see it. On the far side of the kitchen, the mocking white glow of a Stetson slips out the back door. Anger unleashes without thought of consequence, and I run, shove, and swerve, locked in tunnel vision and intent on blood.
He booted me off my own land, hired the men who raped my sister, and dared to come after my girl.
I killed before. For Raina, I’ll kill again.
When I reach a long row of gas stoves, I wildly grope for a way around. The surface sizzles with fire and seared meat. The length of it extends from one wall to another, and the back door waits on the other side.
Panic rises. I’m caught in a goddamn maze, and he’s getting away!
Doubling back costs me precious seconds. I dart around a food prep table and sprint toward the exit, pulse hammering and fingers flexing against the knife handle.
My shoulder collides with the door, crashing it open. Outside, the parking lot glints with cars under the streetlights and fades into the surrounding darkness.
Nothing moves. No one stirs. Where the fuck is he?
I prowl around vehicles, senses sharp and blade held out at my side. If he’s hiding, I’ll find him. Gut him. And strangle him with his goddamn intestines.
The squeal of tires turns my head. On the far side of the restaurant, an expensive pickup peels out of the lot. Gravel flies. Rubber burns, and I explode into a sprint.
My arms pump hard as I stretch my stride and run faster than I’ve ever run in my life. My boots pound pavement. My chest screams for air. I push faster, harder, chasing him down the lakeside road, unwilling to lose him.
But I lose ground.
He hits the gas, and his taillights vanish in the distance.
“Fuuuuck!” My rage thunders across the lake.
I can’t contain the vibrating, thrashing madness inside me. I throw the knife, rip off my hat, and slam it against the ground.
Then I pace, heaving and panting, shaking and pulling at my hair.
He hurt her, and he can hurt her again. Because I fucking failed.
I lace my fingers on my head and tilt my face to the sky, eyes closed, lungs burning, unable to catch my breath.
I left her by herself. Unprotected. What am I doing?
I need to calm my ass down.
Bending at the waist, I grip my knees and breathe. In. Out.
She’s alive.
In. Out.
He didn’t take her.
In. Out.
She needs me.
I collect my knife and hat and jog back. From my pocket, I remove my phone and dial Jarret.
“Where are you?” he asks after the first ring.
“Your dad showed up. He got away. I’m in the back lot.” I disconnect and pick up my pace.
When I hit the parking lot, my gaze falls on the slender silhouette near the back door of the building.
She runs to me, one hand falling to her stomach.
Did he kick her? Punch her? In my mindless fury, I didn’t even check to see if she was bleeding.
When she reaches me, she reads my eyes, and her voice cracks. “He got away.”
My stomach hardens, and I pull her against me, pressing my lips to her hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“Tiana’s alive.” She pushes back, voice rising. “He said if I didn’t go with him, he’d kill her.”
“What?”
As she angrily rushes through what happened, I crouch before her and lift her shirt. No stabs or cuts. No blood. I prod the skin on her abs, and her words break into a cry of pain.
My molars slam together. “I’m going to kill him.”
“I’m going to kill him.” She shoves down the shirt, her eyes brimming with tears. “First, I have to find my sister.”
Christ, this woman. She’s so fierce and beauti
fully hopeful I can’t bring myself to deny her anything.
Maybe Tiana’s alive in a hospital somewhere in Texas, but I’m not counting on it.
“She’s our number one priority.” I lift her into my arms and scan the lot for Jarret. “I need you to trust me.”
“I’ve never trusted anyone.” Her arms wrap tightly around my neck, confessing otherwise.
The sound of an approaching engine turns me toward the street. Jarret veers the truck in beside me and swings open the passenger door.
I meet his ice-cold eyes and in that flickering moment, I see every bullet he’s fired. Every blade he’s bloodied. Every life he’s taken. Killing his father was a burden he never wanted, but that conflict no longer resides in his expression.
“Jake is taking the girls home.” His gaze darts around the perimeter.
I slide in with Raina and shut the door. “We’re going to see Fletcher.”
“Thought you might say that.” He steps on the gas.
While I update him on the last twenty minutes, I hold Raina on my lap, close to my chest. Fuck the seat belt. I’m not putting her down.
During the drive, she falls unnervingly still, almost lethargic, much like the way she was the night I met her, right after she was pulled from John’s house.
I run my hand over the back of her hand, attempting to soothe her. Until my fingers slide through wetness.
“The fuck?” I hold my hand up to the moonlight, and my nails glisten with blood. “What happened to your head?”
“He slammed me against the wall. It’s just a cut.” She pulls my arm down and wraps it around her. “Please, just… Keep holding me.”
My nostrils widen with the flux of my anger. But I manage to rein it in for forty-five agonizing minutes.
Jarret pulls into Sheriff Fletcher’s driveway, holsters the gun from his glove box, and strides to the front porch. I follow him with Raina in my arms and set her on her feet at the door.
When Fletcher answers the knock in his plaid pajamas, Jarret shoves his way inside.
“John paid us a visit tonight in Lindville.” He makes a beeline for the office off the foyer.
“That’s out of my jurisdiction.” Fletcher storms after him. “Get out of my house.”