Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(62)

“How did I know you’d never do what you’re told?” he growled, gently lifting me into his arms.

“Maybe because you actually know me?” I replied sweetly.

He set me onto my bed and frowned down at me, face serious, tortured even. ”Jesus, there’s nothing left of you,” he muttered.

I glanced down at myself. I wasn’t wearing a hospital gown, thank god, but a plain nightgown that stopped mid-thigh. I had to agree with him. My meager and self-imposed near hunger strike at the mansion of horrors had taken its toll.

“The ‘getting kidnapped and held against your will diet’ is not one I’d recommend but it’s effective,” I joked, trying to dispel the intensity that had settled in the air.

Brock’s frown hardened. “This isn’t a f*ckin’ joke, Ames. Not only did that sick f*ck cut you up, he starved you. Jesus,” he shuddered. “He’s dead.”

“Well, you’re right about the ‘cut me up’ bit. But not so much about the second bit,” I said carefully.

Brock narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it was more of a protest, really. You know, he tried to make it seem like I was there on some kind of vacation. Making me dress up for every meal, serving all this fancy shit, being polite. It pissed me off.” I paused. “So I refused to eat any time he summoned me to his ridiculous meals. I refused to participate in his sick game.”

“You mean you starved yourself?” Brock asked quietly.

“No, not exactly. Lucy, his maid, served me lunch and snacks. And I ate that. I just couldn’t do it in front of him—it would be like agreeing that what he was doing was okay, you know? It was bad enough he dressed me like a high class hooker.”

Brock was silent. The silence lasted awhile. I was unsure of what to say to fill it. I wracked my brain for an alternate subject. A safe subject. Unfortunately all subjects between Brock and I were volatile at the moment. In fact, this was the most amount of time we had spent together in months.

Brock decided to break the silence at that point; he did this by calmly walking over to a cabinet full of important looking medical instruments and shoving it to the ground, its contents smashing and scattering everywhere. “Fuck!” he roared.

“Well, that was dramatic,” I declared mildly.

Brock turned to me, his face murderous. “Dramatic? Let’s talk about dramatic. Dramatic is you going on a f*cking hunger strike ‘cause you’re too f*cking stubborn and hard-headed for your own good.” He stepped forward. “Do you have any f*cking idea who Clark Devon is?” he asked on a yell.

“I’m guessing he isn’t a philanthropist who rescues puppies in his spare time,” I retorted sarcastically.

Brock’s gaze narrowed. “This isn’t a f*cking joke, Abrams. Devon’s one of the most dangerous men in America—motherf*cker kills people for sport. What in the hell were you thinking, refusing to eat because you wanted to make some statement?” he yelled at me.

I sat up, crossing my arms, feeling pissed at our uneven positions. “I was thinking that was the only goddamn thing I had control over in that crazy situation. I was thinking how f*cking ridiculous it was that I got kidnapped over some shit my father does when the man hardly gives me a second thought. I was thinking I had to do something instead of be scared out of my wits the entire time!” I yelled back at him, breathing heavily.

This was a familiar situation, us screaming at each other. Brock wasn’t afraid to tell me when I was being a bitch and I wasn’t shy about informing him when he was being a macho *, which was most of the time. What usually followed our screaming matches was some seriously hot makeup sex. I didn’t see that happening this time.

Brock’s face softened and he swore quietly running his hand through his hair, which had fallen out of its bun. “Jesus, babe, it eats me up inside knowing you were not only kept in that psychopath’s house for a week, but you felt you had to starve yourself.” He locked eyes with me. “When your uncle told me you had been taken and who by—” He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that afraid in my life. And when he showed me the videos, the one from the first morning you were there,” he chuckled. “I was equally proud as shit and furious with you for the crap that was coming out of your mouth. Didn’t snivel or plead like most bitches would have. Your fire, your spark, it didn’t dim. You are so f*ckin’ brave, Amy.” He stepped back toward my bed and grasped my hand. “That last video. When you thought you were about to be violated you didn’t beg. You were strong, you f*ckin’ put your wellbeing below some stranger’s. You’re one in a million, Sparky.”

I blinked. This conversation had down a complete one-eighty. I had emotional whiplash. I didn’t know what to say. Brock and I didn’t do deep and meaningfuls.

We continued to stare at each other in silence, something passing between us that made me uncomfortable. Not in the squirmy sex way either. This was more like a pivotal shift. Something had changed. The barriers I had built between us the past year were crumbling, and something about Brock’s expression made me think he wouldn’t let me shut him out any more. What scared me was that I didn’t want to.

I opened my mouth to let it all tumble out. My true feelings, why I had been avoiding him, everything. To lay all of my cards on the table. I had almost died, for christ’s sake. I didn’t want to have any regrets. “Brock, I...”