Shattered Vows

by Maggie Price

  Bran clenched his jaw hard enough to crack fillings. “It’d be a good idea for you to leave, Dewitt. Now.”

  “I’m going.” Danny moved to the door, pulled it open, then paused. “You’ll tell Tor I was here to see her? That I’ll call her tomorrow to find out how she’s doing?”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  When the door closed behind Danny, Bran scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Christ, he didn’t know how two blood-kin could be so different. The kid was a user. Then there was Tory, so independent she wouldn’t let anyone lift a finger for her.

  He damned that independent streak even as he felt sorrow for the young girl she’d been who had so much responsibility dumped on her, and then later was forced to step in and raise her brother.

  Too riled to sit, he remained at the side of the bed, gazing down at his wife. He was well aware that she had survived the attack solely because she was tough and strong. A fighter.

  They sure as hell had gone plenty of verbal rounds during their short marriage!

  He swore viciously. Then again, quietly. If she was so wrong for him, why hadn’t he taken that last, final step by signing the divorce papers? Put an end to things?

  Forehead knitted, he studied her stubborn, sexy face with its pointed chin, sharp cheekbones and sensual mouth. He’d always believed a fast break was a clean one. Yet he’d brooded over those damn papers for nearly two weeks. Lost sleep over them. And, although he’d planned to deliver them to her at the library, he hadn’t signed them ahead of time.

  Using one foot, he dragged a plastic chair beside the bed and settled into it. If the events of the evening had been different, would he have signed the papers after he got to the library?

  Frowning, he settled a hand over hers. And tried to come up with the answer to that question.

  Light glinted in a shimmering arc when the chain dropped in front of Tory’s eyes.

  “No!” The word ripped up her throat. Bolting upright, she grappled at the cold links that tightened viciously around her neck.

  “No!” Clawing at her throat she scrambled onto her knees, desperate to breathe, to survive.

  “Tory!” The deep male voice came from a space just inches away. So close. Too close.

  “Can’t get it off!” She lashed out wildly against the hands that grabbed her scrabbling fingers away from her throat.

  “Tory, it’s Bran. Tory, look at me.”

  Still caught in the terrorizing grip of the nightmare, she saw only the chain. Felt it. “Get it off!”

  “Look at me.” Gathering her wrists in one hand, he cupped a palm to her cheek as she cowered against the bed’s metal railing. “You had a nightmare. A bad dream.” His voice was quiet, but firm enough to pull her out of the dark, suffocating pit.

  “Bran?”

  “You’re in the hospital. I’m here. No one can hurt you.”

  “Oh, God.” Her heart pounded against her ribs; her lungs burned and her face was wet with sweat and tears. She was afraid to move for fear she would crack and shatter into a dozen pieces.

  “You’re okay.” The mattress shifted as he settled beside her. “I’m here.”

  Dim light from the bathroom’s half-open door wedged across the bed. Blinking, she focused on his face, saw the concern in his eyes, the deep lines at the corners of his mouth.

  “I…felt…that…chain.” She got the words out between quick gulps of air. The pressure in her chest was unbearable. “Around my neck. So…tight. Couldn’t breathe. I… couldn’t…breathe.”

  He held out his arms. “Come here.”

  Shuddering, she all but burrowed into him. His arms wrapped around her. Instinctively she turned her face into his throat while the heat of his body seeped into her chilled flesh.

  “I couldn’t breathe.” She swallowed a sob that bubbled up her raw throat. “He…wanted to kill me.”

  “You had a nightmare.”

  “A flashback,” she countered, still in the grips of the fear that had overridden even the pain. “I was in my car. He dropped the chain around my neck. Jerked it. I could feel it.” One long, sick crest of nausea rolled through her stomach. She wouldn’t let herself be sick. She wouldn’t. Her unsteady fingers explored the gauze banded over the furrows that her fingernails had dug into her neck during the attack. “I was there again.”

  “You’re here now. With me. It’s over.” Bran rested his chin on top of her head. “You just need some time to level out.”

  Trying to absorb some portion of the strength she felt in him, she closed her eyes. They flew open instantly when she saw a flash of metal. A shiver ran through her. She realized that she’d been in shock when she’d arrived at the hospital. Then she had been suspended in an oh-so-wonderful floaty drug state that had numbed the horrors of the attack. With both the shock and the sedative wearing off, her body and her mind were now reacting to those horrors.

  Reacting with a vengeance.

  “I’ve got the shakes.”

  “That’s to be expected. Just hold on to me. They’ll go away.”

  She pressed against him, desperate to draw some of his rock-steady calmness into her, hold it. Hold him. His familiar musky scent slid into her lungs. “I…just…need….”

  “Tell me.” When he stroked a palm down her back she felt the heat of his hand through the thin hospital gown. “Tell me what you need. Whatever it is, I’ll get it for you.”

  “My balance. I need…to get my balance back.” Every word burned her throat. “To deal with this. Handle it.”

  “Alone?” Emotions warred through Bran, anger, frustration, sorrow and guilt. He battled them back so his voice would remain calm. “You thinking you’d do best handling this alone, Tory?”

  “I don’t know what I think,” she said, her voice a rusty whisper against his neck. “It’s like the wires are crossed in my brain.”

  He tipped her head back to look at her face. She was as pale as death, her eyes wide and glassy. But the sheen wasn’t from the drugs she’d been given. He knew fear when he saw it.

  “Well, let me uncross those wires. You almost died because a piece of scum decided to get even with me.” Very firmly, very gently, he cupped her face in his hands. “Do you really think I’m going to let you handle this on your own? Deal with this without me? That’s not an option.”

  “Bran—”

  “Not an option. What’s happened between us in the past, whatever’s going on with our relationship right now doesn’t figure into this.” He paused to pull in a steadying breath. “You woke up in a cold sweat, Tory. You’re still shaking. That’s all on me.”

  “The man who attacked me wasn’t Heath, was it?” she asked after a moment. “I remember when he jerked the chain back, he said it was from ‘from Vic.’”

  Bran’s hands dropped from her face, wrapped around her fingers, and felt them tremble. Her flesh was ice-cold. “Heath didn’t attack you,” he confirmed carefully. She might be a tough P.I., but he wanted her on more solid emotional footing before he told her she’d killed the guy. “He’s still out there.”

  She shifted her gaze out the window into the dark night. “He wants to kill me.” Her breath hitched and her hands tightened on his like a lifeline. “Might make a second try.”

  “He won’t get close to you again.” Bran struggled to keep the fury burning inside him out of his voice. “I won’t let Heath or any of his scum pals near you.”

  When she turned her face from the window, the vulnerability in her eyes nearly undid him.

  “Having a tough cop for backup doesn’t sound so bad right now. I….” She lifted an unsteady hand, shoved her hair away from her face. “I can’t seem to keep my thoughts lined up.”

  “You will. After you get some sleep.” He shifted against the pillows to get comfortable. “Meanwhile your backup will stay awake.” He nudged her into the crook of his arm then drew her head down onto his shoulder. “I’ll do my best to keep the nightmares at bay.”

  “Okay.” She relaxed aga
inst him. “I owe you, McCall.” Her voice was as rough as pine bark.

  “You don’t owe me a thing.”

  Easing back, he stared up at the ceiling. While her breathing evened and she slid into sleep, his restless thoughts drifted again to the divorce papers, still folded in his parka’s pocket. He thought again about the fact he still didn’t know if he would have signed them tonight.

  Now, with the soft lines of her body pressed against his, he admitted to himself there was something else going on. He’d been trying to ignore it, work around it, deny it, but now there was no possibility of avoiding the reality. Something was buried inside him, deep inside, that had held him back from signing those papers. Was still holding him back.

  She shifted, nuzzled against him. Breathed a quiet moan. He tightened his arms around her.

  The last thing he wanted was to find something good about her almost getting murdered. But tonight’s attack had brought them back together, at least for a time. So, while Heath was still on the run, Bran intended to keep her close. And he would use their time together to figure out what it was that had kept him hanging on.

  He’d find out why he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.

  Chapter 5

  Out of habit, Tory woke the next morning early and quickly. The instant jolt she felt wasn’t from a sense of disorientation—she knew she was in the hospital and why.

  The punch that hit low in her belly and zipped up her spine came from the fact she was wrapped in a man.

  Bran.

  Mindful of her aching neck, she turned her head slightly while blinking against the January sunlight streaming in the window. She remembered the nightmare. The gripping terror. Could still feel the remnants of fear that had sent her burrowing into Bran’s arms. Was aware that while he held her, she’d felt safe. And she vaguely recalled him assuring her he would stay awake and chase off her nightmares.

  Yeah, right, she thought, watching him sleep.

  She checked that thought when the word dangerous popped into her brain. Bran McCall didn’t need to be awake to ward off all things evil. Not with the sun slashing across the bed, transforming his face into razor-sharp planes and angles. His rumpled dusty-blond hair and heavy stubble of beard emphasized the tough warrior look. In truth, the large, tawny-haired muscular male sleeping beside her was the most daunting sight she could imagine.

  Daunting and waaay unsettling.

  During the night their bodies had shifted; now they lay on their sides, pressed together. She had one palm plastered against his chest—thankfully she noted he was still wearing his crimson sweater—and her right leg was pitched over his slacks-clad ones. He’d tossed his left arm across her hip. She was keenly aware that this was the position they’d woken in every morning they’d shared a bed. Mornings that had been preceded by nights of sizzling, mind-numbing sex.

  During the months they’d been separated she’d worked to convince herself she didn’t miss the closeness, the fevered intimacy. The feel of the hard male body that fitted perfectly—so perfectly—with hers.

  But, Lord, she did.

  She let out the breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. When she drew in another, the scent of his musky aftershave tightened her stomach. Beneath her palm she felt rock-hard muscle and the strong beat of his heart. Echoing in her mind was the memory of the crazed hammering of both their hearts when their bodies joined and blood ruled.

  Her eyes skimmed to his mouth. Heaven help her, she wanted that mouth on hers. Wanted the dark, dangerous taste of him humming through her system again. Waves of mindless need swept over her, surging through her like a storm, churning, quick and violent.

  Defenses clicking in, she fisted her hand against his chest. So, fine, the chemistry was still there—she’d figured that out the previous day when they’d leaned beneath the hood of her car. But lava-hot chemistry didn’t cancel out ice-cold reality. He needed a woman who would lean on him, willingly let him handle all of life’s complications. That wasn’t her, Tory thought, forcing back the vision of her weak, needy mother. That image slowly faded, only to be replaced with one of another woman.

  Patience McCall. Having found several photo albums tucked in Bran’s closet, Tory knew the petite brunette with dark, expressive eyes could have given Miss America a run for her money. A faint trail of envy curled inside Tory at the thought of how perfect Patience and Bran looked together—she encircled in the arms of the husband who’d towered over her. Even in photos he’d been openly shielding and protective.

  Just as he’d been for her last night. She had needed his fierce protection. Had wanted his arms around her until she got her balance back. But she wasn’t Patience, and being watched over like that on a daily basis would all but smother her.

  Which was why she and Bran made a lousy match. Irreconcilable differences—the two words that figured prominently in the divorce papers said it all.

  If only she had realized that the night Bran had nabbed Danny for gambling and hauled him home. If only she had bothered to get to know the man behind the cop before she’d jumped into bed and fallen head over heels in….

  Her breath hitched. She had loved Bran—she wouldn’t have married him otherwise. But it hadn’t taken long for problems to surface. The laughter stopped. Talking transformed into verbal showdowns. Even the physical intimacy they shared couldn’t keep them together.

  Suddenly desperate to put space between them, she eased into a sitting position.

  “Tory?”

  Needing a minute to close off her private pain, she turned her head toward the window.

  Bran levered up, gripped her arm and nudged her around. Despite the fatigue in his face, his blue eyes examined her with razor sharpness. “You okay? Did you have another nightmare?”

  More like a wet dream, she thought, swallowing the knot of emotion in her battered throat.

  “I’m fine,” she rasped. Her voice sounded as if it had been coated with a corrosive and her mouth was impossibly dry. “I could use some water.”

  “I’ll get ice from the nurse.”

  “Thanks,” she said, grateful for the prospect of a few moments alone to level out.

  He brushed his knuckles across her cheek. Though the gesture was gentle, his eyes were hard. “You’re here on my account. The last thing you need to do is thank me.” He swung off the bed, snagged the plastic pitcher from the nightstand.

  She watched him go, then shifted her gaze back to the window. While she stared out into the winter sunlight, regret for what might have been—and what could never be—filled the air around her like smoke.

  Two hours later, Bran leaned against the windowsill and watched a tank-sized nurse in green scrubs check Tory’s blood pressure.

  “On the money,” the nurse said. “How’s your throat feel?”

  “Like I drank acid.”

  “Sounds that way, too,” the woman said. “Considering what happened to you last night, that’s to be expected.”

  “When can I bust out of here?” Tory asked in a scratchy whisper. “I need to call and tell my girlfriend when to pick me up.”

  Bran caught the look the nurse flicked at him. He had signed the admittance papers, so it was a matter of record that he and Tory were married. That she planned to leave with a girlfriend instead of her husband naturally raised eyebrows.

  “You’re our guest until the doctor releases you.” The nurse checked her watch. “He’ll be by in an hour or so.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bran crossed his arms over his chest. The friend Tory referred to was her P.I. pal, Sheila Sanford. His wife didn’t know it yet, but she wasn’t going anywhere with Sheila. Or anyone else other than him.

  She was still pale. Her green eyes held a residual glint of pain. Despite her physical injuries, he knew she wouldn’t allow herself to remain fragile much longer. Little by little she would summon the strength and will to stand apart from the need for his help. And from him. Tough, he thought. As long as Heath was loose,
he was keeping his wife on a short leash.

  After a few murmured instructions, the nurse headed out the door.

  Pushing away from the window, Bran moved to the bed. “I talked to Nate while you were in the shower. He brought me up to speed on the investigation. Are you feeling steady enough to talk about that? Or do you want to get more rest right now?”

  “Now’s fine.” She tugged on one sleeve of her pale-blue hospital gown before easing back on the pillows. “Speaking of rest, you look tired. Sorry I woke you with that flashback.”

  “It was a bad one.” He could still hear her terrorized words that had rocketed him out of sleep and chilled his blood, still picture the fear in her eyes. “I hope my being here helped.”

  “It helped a lot,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been here.”

  Bran shifted his gaze to the window. It was ironic, he thought, how often he’d wished he could hear words like that from her.

  “Bran?”

  “Yeah?” He looked back, watched her gather her long hair in one hand, then clip it back.

  “What did Nate say? Has Heath been nabbed yet?”

  “No.” He edged a hip onto the mattress. “Our guys are working the streets. If anyone knows where Heath is holed up, they aren’t talking.”

  “What about the scum who attacked me? What’s his name?”

  “Easton Kerr.”

  “He’s looking at an attempted murder charge. You think with some creative interrogation you guys can get him to give up Heath?”

  Bran kept his eyes steady on hers. “Kerr won’t be telling us anything.”

  “Why? He being a tough guy? Refusing to talk?”

  “No.” He waited a beat. “Kerr’s dead.”

  “Dead? How?” Her eyes widened. “Did you….”

  She didn’t have to finish the question for him to read her thoughts. “Did I kill him for what he did to you?” he asked smoothly. “No, although I’d have been tempted. When Nate and I got to the library, Kerr was dead. In the back seat of your car.”