by Abbie Roads
“The shock treatments.”
“Oh yeah. You said that, didn’t you? And I forgot it.” A thin edge of concern cut through her tone.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. The short-term memory problems are temporary. I promise. Drink for me.” He held the glass to her lips. She reached up and covered his hand with hers. His heart skipped a few beats, then returned to its regularly scheduled rhythm.
She swallowed down the entire glass of water the same way she talked—full speed and without censorship, gulping and slurping like a child. “That’s good. Real good. I’m so thirsty all of a sudden.” She didn’t take her hands off his. He tried to move the glass, but she gripped it tight. “No. I want to keep touching you. It feels so good to have my skin on yours.”
Holy.
Christ.
Those images of hard fucking jumped into his mind again. He should change the subject, divert her attention in some way, but what came out his mouth had nothing to do with those intentions. “I’m going to be sad to see this side of you go. I like you being affectionate and warm to me.”
“Then hold me. Just for a little while. Until I fall asleep again.” The words themselves weren’t a question, but his heart heard the quiet query behind them.
“Anything you want.” He would deny her nothing. She let go of him so he could place the empty glass on the nightstand. Instead of crawling in the bed with her, he picked her up. She nestled her face against his chest, and his heart banged extra hard trying to get her attention. A contented sigh slipped from her lips, and he felt more light and carefree in that moment than he had in his entire life. He sat in the chair directly in front of the fireplace.
The fire had burned down to a few low flames, deepening and lengthening the dark, but still putting out a bit of warmth.
“A girl could get used to having a big, strong man carrying her around.” Her words were a sigh.
“A guy could get used to having a beautiful lady to carry around.”
She laughed, the sound lovely in the same way birdsong enchanted the ear.
“Are you flirting with me?” One of her hands stroked his chest.
Christ. Was he flirting with her? Was he—Cain Killion, son of the man who’d tried to kill her—flirting with her? Hell yeah, he was. Wrong or not. “Are you flirting with me?”
“I don’t know. It’s been so long since I had anyone to flirt with that I’m not sure what it is anymore.”
“I think you’re a natural.” He rubbed his chin on the top of her head. “You’re doing better today. I was worried about you.”
“You’re so sweet. I haven’t had someone to worry about me since my family died. Did you know my family died?”
Everything good and warm and happy dissolved. He didn’t want to hear her talk about this. Not this. This was too soon. Too close to the bone. Too close to the blood. Too close to his own dark urges.
“They were murdered. By…by…by Killion.”
Everything inside him kicked like a reflex at the name.
“Why am I talking about this?” Her voice hitched. “I never allow myself to think about it. Forgetting is good therapy. But I’ve never really forgotten how my parents screamed before he slid his blade into their throats.” Her voice took on a monotone quality. “The sound of their blood pumping, spritzing, dripping onto the floor—I can’t escape it. Or the way Killion stared into my brother’s eyes, caressed his cheek, ran his hand through his hair—almost as if he loved him—just before he cut out his throat. And when he turned to me, his blade dripped the blood of my family on my neck. The warmth of it startling and sickening and strangely comforting. I had been scared watching them die, but I wasn’t scared anymore. I wanted it. I wanted it over.”
His body had turned to stone. His heart a mausoleum of sorrow. His lungs twin pillars of shame and guilt. That she would confess her most horrific moments to him… She obviously didn’t know who he was. And now was not the fucking time to tell her.
A pained whine issued from her mouth, growing in volume to wailing, then leveling out at full-body weeping. She shuddered and shook against him, the force of her sobs startling in their power. Her face mashed against his chest, her tears wetting his shirt, his skin.
Life had been perpetually unfair to her. He ached for the pain she’d endured. The pain she still experienced. And the pain she would experience when she recognized him. Because he knew. Knew she’d be afraid of him. And all of this—holding her, flirting with her—would be nothing but a memory.
“Shh…shh… I’m right here with you.” He didn’t bother with bullshit words. He stuck with the facts. He was here. With her. Period. He wrapped both arms around her, holding her tightly to him, hoping that by some strange osmosis she’d be able to absorb his strength.
How long she cried against him, he didn’t know and didn’t really care. He’d sit here holding her for a hundred years, if that’s how long she needed to grieve. When the last of her sobs subsided, she stilled against him, sniffling and snuffling every once in a while.
“I… Wow, sorry about that. I don’t normally go all crybaby. Maybe it’s the meds.” She pulled back to look at him.
His lungs latched down tight, refusing to let in any air.
The last of the firelight caught the wetness on her face and lashes, causing her tears to shimmer like melted gold.
Her gaze roamed over him. He couldn’t remember what he should say to soothe her, to reassure her. Words seemed inadequate. He tried to tell her with his gaze that he meant no harm. That he wasn’t his father. And for a moment she seemed to understand. Then her eyes widened and rolled in their sockets like a frightened foal. She bucked away from him, all the force of fear in her movement. She landed on the ground—nearly in the fireplace—a grunt of pain shooting from her mouth. Mindless in her fear, she scuttled back from him, placing her hand near the glowing coals.
“Careful.” He reached for her, to get her away from the fire before she hurt herself.
She screamed, the sound no canned movie scream but filled to bursting with genuine terror.
He went statue still, arms still outstretched to her.
She pushed herself away from him, further and further until she huddled in the far corner of the cabin, gasping for air like she’d been holding her breath for too long.
He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t said a word. Had been paralyzed by her reaction. If he was the crying kind—which he wasn’t—he’d have felt like having a good old-fashioned water party. That look on her face was something he’d never wanted to see. That was why he’d never sought her out. He’d known what was left of his soul couldn’t handle it.
And he’d been right.
His stomach contracted. He grunted from the unexpected pain of it. All the humiliation of lost hope rolled up his throat. He tipped forward in the chair, opened his mouth, and dry heaved. His innards seized and spasmed, refusing to release him as he gagged on self-disgust.
The room went hotter than an incinerator. Sweat dripped off his face and splatted onto the floor. The sounds coming out of him were as wretched as he felt. The phantom barfing lasted a short eternity.
He needed to reassure her that he intended no harm. He turned his head toward her corner, opened his mouth—
She was gone.
His eyes nearly leaped out of their sockets.
Shit.
He jumped to his feet, gaze darting around the cabin, at the same time knowing she’d run off while he’d been sick. “Mercy.” Her name came out on a sigh of defeat. He should just let her go. Let her run toward whatever fate awaited her. She didn’t want him. She preferred Dr. Payne over him, so let her have Dr. Payne.
No.
He might be a monster, but he wasn’t an asshole. Duty, obligation, and remorse propelled him out the door after her. To her, it wouldn’t be a positive sign that he was chasing her. But
what other option did he have?
The night was starless and moonless, casting the world in varying shades of black. A sea of dense forest surrounded the clearing the cabin rested on. The woods were thick and dark, the kind that would claw and bite and close around you tighter than a prison. No, she wouldn’t have gone in there. She would’ve found the lane more appealing. She would’ve hoped to find a road. To find help. To find salvation.
He ran as if her life depended on it. And it did. If someone found her, she’d eventually end up back in the Center. And Dr. Payne would have a second try at frying her mind.
The late-spring night was too quiet and too still. Almost as if it were holding its breath waiting, waiting, waiting to see what was about to happen. Cain’s breath rasped, his footfalls pounded, his soul died a bit more.
Christ. He didn’t know how long she had been gone. How far away she could be. If she could even hear him.
“Mercy.” He tried to add a reassuring quality to his tone, but it was impossible while running and yelling. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not him. I’m Cain. I’m Liz’s friend. She asked me to save you from Dr. Payne. I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you. I’m trying to save you.”
The lane ended abruptly, dumping him out onto the solitary road. He looked right—nothing. Looked left—a shadow lying on the road. Any vehicle heading down the pavement would run right over her. “Shit.” He whispered the word and ran toward her.
She lay on her stomach, arms stretched up to her head as if she’d been trying to fucking crawl away after her legs couldn’t carry her any further.
Goddamn it.
He couldn’t deal with this. Yeah, he might be a masochist, but this was a level of suffering he couldn’t endure. Didn’t have it in him to let her keep stabbing his dying soul.
He went down on his knees beside her. Not daring to touch her, he let his head drop on his shoulders and stared at his lap. “Mercy.” He tried to make himself sound as harmless as possible without going falsetto. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I need to take you back to the cabin where you’ll be safe.”
When she didn’t say anything or move, he forced himself to look at her.
Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed. He touched her cheek. She didn’t flinch away from him.
For the first time since he’d taken her from Liz, he was grateful for her unconsciousness.
* * *
Cain stood in the farthest corner of the room from Mercy, staring at her tucked up under those covers. In the predawn light, the scar across her neck seemed to glow silver. Sleep had relaxed her features, making her look younger than her age. He could almost see the girl she’d once been.
When she had looked at him, she’d only seen his father and assumed he was the same. But had he really expected anything less? No. Yes. No. Yes. Stop it.
He might’ve saved her from the Center, but the way she’d looked at him locked him in a prison he’d always feared—being seen in the same light as his father. He’d been a big, dumbass idiot for thinking this would’ve worked out any other way than her being terrified of him.
He couldn’t do this with her again—couldn’t tolerate that fear on her face again when she woke up. Once was bad enough.
Cain nabbed his cell off the table, then walked out the door into the gray dawn light. A lone bird began singing a solitary song. He walked down the driveway, heading toward the road—the only place where he could pick up a cell signal. A woodpecker began rapping against a tree. Nature usually soothed him, but today it did nothing for him.
Ten feet from the road, he turned on his phone, waited until it booted up, and found a weak signal. At least there was a signal. He punched in Liz’s number.
It rang. Once. Twice. “Hello. You’ve reached Liz Sands—”
Cain hung up.
He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t, yet his finger hit Mac’s number. He braced himself for Mac’s reaction. Mac was smart enough to add. One Mercy missing plus one Cain missing equaled a whole hell of a lot of problems.
Mac picked up on the first ring. “I was just getting ready to call you. We caught a case. A bad one. I need to talk to you about it.”
Cain’s brain had trouble catching up with Mac’s words. He’d expected disappointment. Anger. Something. He hadn’t expected shop talk.
“Cain? You there? You all right?” Mac had the concerned tone again. The one he used far too often around Cain.
“Uh…uh…” Christ, what was he going to say? He should’ve taken two seconds to think about how this conversation was going to play out before he’d called Mac. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it.”
“What’s wrong? I can hear it in your voice. Talk to me. Whatever it is, you’ll be fine. We’ll get through it. I’m here for you. Always have been. Always will be.” The words flowed out of Mac’s mouth as if he’d carefully rehearsed them for years.
And didn’t that just about suck. That Mac had suspected Cain would lose his shit at some point and had a pre-rehearsed set of platitudes.
Ignore that. Focus on what’s important. “What have you heard about Mercy?”
Mac breathed one of those dodged-a-bullet sighs. “I talked to Legal at the Bureau, and they say we can’t do anything until her psychiatrist gives us permission. The only option is to file a motion to have her mental state evaluated by another psychiatrist, but that could take months. And if they fight it, years.”
Holy. Fucking. Christ. Mac hadn’t heard that Mercy was missing?
No. Mac would’ve heard. Everyone should’ve heard by now. It should be playing on all the radio and TV stations. Something as big as Mercy Ledger going missing from a psychiatric facility wouldn’t be kept quiet. Hell no. That was the stuff of good ratings.
“I have Mercy.” Cain blurted the words out without even trying to pretty them up.
Silence for a few beats. “Say that again. ’Cause I could’ve sworn you said you had Mercy.”
“I do. She’s with me. I’ve had her for two days now. You’d know if she had been reported missing. So that means she hasn’t been reported missing. And that says there’s something majorly fucked up going on.”
“Wait a minute, I’m still back on you saying you have her. What do you mean you have her?”
“I mean she’s in my bed sleeping off all the meds Dr. Payne had her on. And her short-term memory is shot to shit from the shock treatments.”
“You…you…” Mac stuttered.
“I intended just to meet with Mercy so I could find out about the symbol. That’s all. Liz agreed to make that happen. I never thought Liz would demand I take Mercy. And when she told me what Dr. Payne had been doing to her… Mac, I couldn’t leave Mercy there. That man was going to kill her.”
“Liz? Liz helped you take her? Two days ago? And you haven’t talked to or seen Liz since?” Mac didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Christ. I’m on my way back there right now. Don’t you move. Don’t you do anything. Don’t call anyone or talk to anyone. We’ll figure out how to handle this.”
“I’m not at home.” He gave Mac the directions to the cabin, and they hung up.
In three hours, he was going to pull one of the biggest cowardly moves of his life. He was going to dump Mercy Ledger in Mac’s lap and walk away.
Chapter 5
What does it say about us that our primary sources of entertainment are shows and movies that glamorize violence, rape, and murder?
—Ellis Worth, MD, Journal of Human and Philosophical Studies
The first thing Mercy became aware of was her face throbbing a low-level beat. Her bones ached, and her muscles felt too heavy to move. Her side burned with every inhale and exhale. Her stomach felt oddly distended and empty at the same time.
And she was going to milk it for all it was worth.
She finally had a viable excuse to stay in her
room, avoid group, and cancel her session with Dr. Payne. The flu. She’d tell everyone she had the flu. Couldn’t be too far from the truth. It wasn’t like she was faking how bad her body felt. She would spend the entire day lying here, eyes closed, pretending to sleep, and luxuriating in the rare bit of isolation.
“Are you awake?” a masculine voice whispered.
Her heart slammed against her spine, and her muscles leaped. She gasped a sound of undiluted shock and wrenched her eyes open.
The world around her had changed. Gone was the sterile room with bars on the windows. Gone was the stench of industrial cleaning products laced with cafeteria food. Gone was the entire Center. In its place was a cozy wood-paneled room with a quaint stone fireplace and a man.
His hair was the color of dark caramel and cut just long enough to be swept messily to the side. His features were angular and hard and so damned masculine it almost hurt to look at him. His eyes were the color of a changing sky—light in the center of the iris like a cloudless summer day and dark like a winter’s night toward the outer edge.
She knew him. Recognition stabbed her in the neck—in the scar she bore across her throat. The echo of that past pain stole her breath. She grabbed her throat, hand pressing over the cold scar. Her heart turned into a battering ram and beat against the bars of her ribs.
She went from lying on the bed to fully upright and ready to run.
“You.” The word was an accusation, a condemnation, a judgment, scraping its way up her throat and out her lips. She wasn’t going to show him an ounce of fear. He’d swallowed her fear twenty years ago and enjoyed the flavor.
He blinked, a long, lazy closing of his eyes, and when he reopened them, the light in his gaze had been devoured by the dark. “I’m not him.” He spoke with just as much conviction as her allegation had contained.
His words turtle-crawled from her ears to her brain, their meaning finally firing along her synapses, and she understood.