Crossing the blankets, I pull her to me, away from her hiding place. I turn her so her back is against my chest, and she shivers in my arms.

  Wrapping her tighter in my embrace, I speak in her ear. “Wake up now. You’re having a dream.”

  My voice is gentle, calming. Her body stiffens, another shiver, and I shush her again, sliding my hands up and down her arms. My face is in her hair, and the faintest scent of jasmine still clings to her tresses.

  A sob jerks her body, and her head turns to the side suddenly. “What’s happening?”

  Relaxing my hold, I’m reluctant to let her go. “You were having a nightmare.” My voice is quiet. “A pretty bad one from the sound of it.”

  “Oh, God.” Her body goes limp in my arms, her head falling forward. “I’m sorry.”

  Clearing my throat, I force my arms to release her. “No problem.” I push into a sitting position beside her, and she reaches for the blankets.

  Thunder rumbles low on the horizon, and I feel the shift in my chest. It’s not okay, and nothing is forgotten. I rub both hands over my face before pushing off on my knees.

  “Get some sleep.”

  I return to the bed, but wind and rain rage all night. I don’t sleep, and I can’t tell, but I don’t think she’s sleeping either. At some point before dawn, the storm passes, and I manage to nod off for an hour or two.

  The glow of the dawn rouses me, and I slide out of bed, staggering down the hall to make coffee. This day is critical. At least this evening is. While I wait for the coffee to drip, I return to the bedroom. Rainey is lying on her side with her back to me, so I decide to let her sleep.

  I take out my phone and text Scar and Hutch. I’ll be on the cams. Somebody call me so I’ll have audio.

  It doesn’t take long for Scar to text me back. We’re meeting at five before customers arrive. I’ll call. How’s our prisoner?

  My thumbs fly as I answer. No problems here. All prepped for backup.

  I get a thumbs up, and I walk over to pour a cup of coffee. I’m settling in when I hear a voice calling from the bedroom. Walking down the hall, I push the door open to find her sitting up waiting.

  “Sorry to bother you. I need to use the restroom.”

  Bending down, I unlock the cuff from the furniture and straighten, offering my hand this time as well as holding the other end of the bracelet. I won’t let her roam free or give her the chance to bolt. I’m not an amateur.

  At the same time, I feel certain she’s not going to run.

  When I hear the flush and the noise of the sink in the half-bathroom in the hall, I return to meet her. Then I lead her to the kitchen and lock her to the chair.

  “Coffee?” I hold up a mug, and she nods. “Sorry, we’re all out of cinnamon.”

  A cautious smile presses her lips together. She blinks down, taking the mug and pouring a dollop of cream in it before taking a sip of the warm liquid.

  “It’s good,” she nods, lowering the mug.

  I return to the basket, retrieving a couple of muffins. “They're day-old, but they should reheat okay.”

  “I liked the walnut ones.”

  I dig a little deeper and pull out a few of those, putting them all on a plate and nuking them for fifteen seconds. When the bell dings, I take them out, putting the dish between us and sitting beside her to eat.

  Her eyes are fixed on the muffin as she struggles to break it apart with one hand.

  “Here.” I reach over and cut it into bite-sized pieces with my fork.

  She waits, watching me with her hands in her lap. “Thank you.”

  A pit is in my stomach, and I stand, going around the bar for more coffee, using the wooden barrier as a form of defense against the pull between us.

  Holding the cup, I look out the kitchen window. Several limbs are down in the yard from the storm that passed last night, and the air is clean and chilly. I have several hours to kill before Scar needs me, and I can’t spend them in this house fighting these feelings.

  When I turn to face her again, her eyes are on her fingers turning a piece of muffin on the plate, but she’s not eating. She’s blinking in a way that seems like she’s fighting some internal battle, and my stomach twists. I tell myself I don’t want to know, but she’s so small sitting at the table in my shirt and sweatpants. For the first time, she seems ten years younger than me. She seems vulnerable—a view I know is dangerous.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

  Her lips press together before she lifts her blue eyes to mine. “I’m really sorry about last night. That hasn’t happened in a while.”

  I nod, not sure what to say. She told me she had nightmares, but she didn’t tell me how severe they were. She also hadn’t told me they’d stopped. I guess that part wasn’t a lie.

  Setting my mug down, I straighten. “I’m going to clean up some of the mess outside. Would you like to sit out there or… in here?”

  “I’d like to sit outside if that’s okay.”

  Wiping my hands, I take a Carhart jacket hanging on the rack and toss it over my arm. She stands, one hand still attached to the barstool, and I slide the right coat sleeve up her arm. Taking out the key, I unhook the cuff from the chair, and she slides her arm in the other sleeve.

  Pulling the lapels, I straighten the jacket over her shoulders then fasten the button at her neck. Her eyes lift to mine again, and we’re so close. The heat of her body warms mine, and I could dip my face down and kiss her the way I used to do.

  Taking a step back, I clear my throat. “Come on.” I guide her by the handcuff, not touching her skin, to the porch. “Would you prefer the bench or the swing?”

  “Swing, please.”

  My jaw clenches at her small voice, but I lead her to the wooden swing hanging from the porch ceiling. Locking the cuff around the chain going through the armrest, I turn and walk out to the covered patio. Scar has several small hand tools, a rake, and a large pile of limbs and leaves in a clear spot for burning. I pick up a hatchet and a pair of tree loppers and get started. Nothing’s better than manual labor to burn off bullshit feelings.

  Hours later, I’m sweaty and energized, and Scar’s yard is completely clear. Throughout the morning, every time I glanced over, she was quietly gliding back and forth on the swing, her blue eyes fixed on me and my progress.

  Returning to where she sits, I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my glove. “I’m heading in to take a shower. Do you need the restroom or anything?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I’m not sure why her soft, simple answers piss me off. It’s like she’s taunting me with compliance, submission, penance. I roughly unhook her and lift her a little too hard out of the swing. This time I grip her wrist, dragging her across the porch and into the house behind me.

  I don’t stop until we’re at the bathroom, where I open the door and shove her inside. “Don’t take too long.”

  I pull the door closed then go to the kitchen where I take a long drink of ice-cold water, but it only cools my anger slightly. I need a shower. The sound of the toilet flush makes me turn, and I go to the bathroom, banging on the door with my fist. “Let’s go.”

  The door opens, and her eyes are round when she looks up at me as if she’s afraid. I don’t react. I take her wrist again, leading her to the bedroom and telling her to sit, hooking her to the nightstand before going to the bathroom and closing the door.

  Stripping off my sweaty clothes, I switch on the shower and stand beneath the warm spray for several long minutes with my eyes closed. Scar and Hutch’s meeting today has to bring some sort of resolution to all this. I can’t keep going this way.

  Slamming off the water, I turn, grab a towel, and quickly dry myself, tying the cloth around my waist. When I return to the bedroom, she’s holding my book again, reading with my picture in her fingers.

  I go straight to where she’s sitting and snatch it out of her grasp. “This isn’t for you.”

  Her feet shoot out, and she scrambles, pressing her back against the wall, and I feel like an ass. She’s not fighting me. I have no reason to be cruel. Still, I’m pissed.

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice is quiet. “I was just trying to pass the time.”

  Without an answer, I take the photo and return it to my book before placing it on the nightstand where it belongs. Going around to my bag, I pull out a pair of sweats and a tee, pulling the shirt over my head before going to the bathroom to hang the towel and step into my pants.

  When I get back, she’s sitting with her legs crossed, studying her fingers. She lifts her head when I enter.

  “Dirk…” Her brow furrows, like she’s afraid to ask. “I really need to shower. Would it be possible, please, real quick—”

  Inhaling deeply, I bend down to unhook the handcuff. “Come on.”

  I wait until she stands, then I lead her to the bathroom I’ve just vacated. Steam is on the mirrors, and I look at the large window behind the bathtub. Scar’s razor, a pair of scissors, a hand mirror, a set of candles in heavy, stone containers, hell, the iron sculpture over the tub, all of these things can be used to break out or be used as weapons.

  Scrubbing the back of my neck, I don’t see another option. “I’ll have to stay in here with you, but I’ll turn my back.”

  “I’ll be quick.” She grabs the hem of the tee I gave her to wear, and I turn the minute it starts to rise.

  Last thing I need is to see her breasts with the way I’m feeling. My hands are on the counter, when I realize turning my back doesn’t remove the oversized mirrors directly in front of me lining the two walls behind the vanity.

  She steps into the glass shower stall and switches on the water, and my eyes drift from my hands on the counter to the mirror. The steam is dissipating, and I can see her smooth back as she holds out her hand, testing the water. When it’s acceptable, she steps forward, and I’m not sure if she intends to moan, but she does. It’s a charge straight to my dick.

  Reaching down, I slide my palm over my semi to calm the raging need her round ass and soft noises provoke. It’s when I realize I’ve made a critical mistake.

  25

  Rainey

  This might be the best shower I’ve had in my entire life. For three days I’ve been stuck in this miserable prison, and while the temperature has been cool and I haven’t done any strenuous exercise, I still feel like I’m wearing a second skin. My deodorant failed days ago, and even the clean, citrusy scent in Dirk’s clothes is gone.

  Forgetting my promise to work quickly, I close my eyes and let the luscious warm water flow over my dirty hair and face. I’ve been so miserable, this one small comfort is like a lifeline. It’s like the warm muffin or the hot coffee, or the feeling of being wrapped in Dirk’s arms in the middle of the night, even for just a few moments.

  I’d been in hell in my sleep, running from the men who shot my father, terrified. I’d been clinging to my little doll for comfort when Natasha threw it into the fire. My heart was breaking over and over as I lost all the things I held dear, and once again, he saved me from the nightmares.

  Only now he’s the thing I hold dear, and I don’t think I’ll ever have him again.

  Reaching for the shampoo, I quickly wash my hair. It smells like honeysuckle, and I realize it must belong to Hana. Next, I take the soap and quickly form a lather, running my hands all over my body, under my arms, over my belly, between my legs.

  Automatically, I turn to rinse, and my eyes land on dark hazel watching me in the mirror. It’s a strike of lightning from my chest to my core, and I freeze, holding my hands in my hair, my breasts lifted, my lips parted.

  He doesn’t look away, and I don’t either. Moving my hands slowly, I slide my palms down my cheeks, then I slide them lower, over my breasts. My nipples are peaked, and I lift them, keeping my eyes on his as warmth floods my belly.

  In my peripheral vision, I see his hand move over his dick. Slipping out my tongue, I wet my bottom lip as I continue caressing my breasts. It’s hypnotic watching him watch me. His hand is outside his sweatpants, but the bulge in the thin fabric is painfully obvious.

  I take a chance, reaching behind me to switch off the water. I reach up again, arching my back to lift my breasts as I wring the excess water out of my hair, then I step to the door and push it open.

  His back is still to me, but his eyes drink in my naked body in the mirror, small drops of water clinging to my skin. Steam climbs the glass, but I’ve reached him. His muscles are tense, his broad shoulders rising with his rapid breathing. I press my breasts to his back, sliding my hands around his waist and moving one beneath the fabric to caress his hard cock.

  Wetness floods my core, and I close my eyes remembering how good it feels, curling my fingers and tracing every line and ridge of his erection. I want him so much. With a start, as if waking from a dream, he grips my wrist, jerking my hand away as he turns in my arms to face me.

  My eyes fly open, and when they meet his, he’s furious. I’m not sure what comes over me, but I lift my other hand and grip his shoulder, pushing him back as if I’ll fight with him. He grips my other wrist pushing me, and I pivot, rotating my body so he slams me against the wall.

  I exhale a moan, and his eyes flash. He closes the space between us, caging me with his body, and my lips part. We’re not speaking, but a whimper slips from my throat. Every noise seems to enrage him more, and he puts his hand between my legs, cupping my pussy.

  “Oh,” I gasp as his fingers invade, testing my wetness.

  My hands go to his waist, and I push the soft cotton pants lower. I palm his erection before quickly dropping to my knees and pulling it into my mouth.

  “Fuck,” he groans as I suck deeper, taking him to the back of my throat.

  Large hands grip my damp hair, and he guides me, rocking his hips slightly, hitting the back of my throat with his cock. My hands are on his thighs, and I slide them higher, gripping his ass and giving him what he needs, what I need as well, letting him take his anger out on me.

  He groans again, and I feel the tension in his legs. I brace for his orgasm, but his hands move quickly, gripping me under the arms. I’m off him with a pop, and he turns me, pushing me forward onto the bathroom counter on my stomach.

  I’ve just braced my hands when he slams into me from behind, and I let out a loud moan. He doesn’t stop, driving violently into me. My body quivers, and the heat of his anger, the desperate force of his fucking, triggers a surge of orgasm in my belly.

  Rough hands reach beneath, finding my breasts and squeezing, kneading them. He’s feverish, taking what he wants, not waiting for me to come. He’s punishing me for betraying him, and I press my hand against the mirror. I drive my ass back to meet him. His hands move to my hips, gripping me harder as he thrusts, growling words of anger and need with every hit.

  A loud crack echoes in the bathroom and heat blasts across my ass from his palm.

  “Oh, God,” I gasp as the orgasm rages through my core, clenching my insides with violent spasms.

  He slaps me again, and my knees buckle. He lifts me up by my hips, fucking me two, three more times relentlessly, before holding steady, roaring with release as his cock pulses deep inside me. He holds my ass firmly against his body, and his thighs jerk and tremble against mine. Another spasm of orgasm grips my core, and another groaning swear leaves his lips.

  Several seconds pass, and he holds me, until he seems to regain his bearings. Then without a word, he pulls out, restores his pants, and leaves the bathroom, slamming the door.

  I place my palms on the cool, marble counter, straightening before the mirror. Wetness is on my thighs, and I go to the shower, taking the cloth and running a bit more water to clean myself again. His damp towel hangs behind the door, and I lift it off the hook, wrapping it securely under my arms before opening the bathroom door.

  He’s not in the bedroom, but a fresh stack of clothes I assume are for me sits on the edge of the bed. I take his boxer briefs and pull them over my hips, then I pull on the new long-sleeved Henley, which smells divinely of him, and the loose, linen pants I think might be Hana’s, although she’s a few sizes smaller than me. Perhaps they’re Blake’s.

  Taking the handcuff off the bed, I return the towel to the bathroom before walking down the hall to find him. He’s in the kitchen when I enter, standing with his hands bracing the sink, facing the window.

  It’s after lunchtime, and I’m not sure what to do. I decide a peace offering is all I have left, so I sit on the stool and handcuff my wrist to the arm of the stool like he always does.

  The clink of metal causes him to turn, and his eyes narrow when he sees me sitting, fully dressed, the good little prisoner.

  Clearing his throat, he scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Nothing’s changed.”

  I nod slowly, studying my hand on the bar. “When I was given this assignment, they said you were the computer geek, the tech guy, and I expected a nerd, a nobody. I didn’t expect what I found. I didn’t expect you to affect me. I didn’t expect to want you so much.”

  “It didn’t stop you from lying to me.”

  “No.” Inhaling slowly, I steady my voice. “I was too focused on revenge. Then I had this fantasy you might understand. I dreamed of us working together, finding the killer and bringing him to justice together.”

  “Don’t say that to me. I didn’t make you lie.” It’s a low rasp, and I know he’s struggling as much as I am.

  “Even if you hate me now, I still want you. Could you ever be on my side?”

  “No.” His gaze levels on mine. “I could never trust you.”

  “But you can.” My voice breaks. “Yes, it started as a setup, the visits to your office, the seduction, it was all a big master plan, but at some point everything changed. My feelings for you became very real.”

  His hands grip my shoulders, and he gives me a hard shake as he growls. “Stop lying to me!”