Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(22)
“Home?” Isleen’s attention snapped to Matt. “After all this time, I don’t think we have a home anymore.”
“Baby, he means our home.” Technically, not his home, but he didn’t feel like complicating an already crazy situation. “Gale and Alex’s home. The Institute. Gale must’ve mentioned the Institute. She’s still part-owner.”
Isleen’s gaze met his. There was something in her eyes, something he couldn’t name that seemed to be pleading for—for what? He was lost, didn’t understand what was happening.
Her chin began to quiver and her eyes went wet, but she blinked rapidly, fanning away the tears. She shifted away from him on the bed, out of touching range, and stared down at the mass of sheets and covers. “When do we leave?” Her voice was steadier than her chin.
“Ten minutes.” Matt turned and headed for the door, then stopped. “Reporters are stationed at the lobby entrance and employee entrance, so you’ll meet me at the ambulance entrance.”
“Okay,” she said. The word itself wasn’t bad, the tone of her voice wasn’t bad, so why did Xander feel bad like they were taking her back to the torture trailer or some equally terrible fate?
Isleen lifted her chin and aimed her words at Matt. “I need some clothes.”
What was going on? Why was she talking to the family asshole when the guy who’d found her, the guy who hadn’t left her side—except for a moment—was sitting a foot away?
One side of Matt’s top lip curled up in an Elvis-worthy sneer. “Xander’s in charge of that shit.” He tossed Xander a WTF look and left the room.
Neither of them moved.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” He scooted closer, but Isleen raised her hand in the universal sign for stop.
“I need clothes.” She looked everywhere except at him.
He reached over, opened the drawer beside the bed, and took out a set of clothes Row had brought for her. He held out the bundle. “Tell me what’s wrong.” No, that was not the sound of pleading in his voice. He didn’t plead. He didn’t beg—at least not since he was child and his dad stopped speaking to him. Since then, Xander hadn’t let himself care about anyone because this was exactly what happened whenever he cared.
Chapter 8
“Isleen. Wake up.”
The richness of Xander’s voice poured into her sluggish, sleepy mind like hot fudge. She basked in the warm sweetness of that special moment between sleep and waking, the muted crunching of gravel under the car tires a surprising lullaby.
“We’re almost home.” Xander shook her leg, his touch firm and full of reassurance. Every one of Isleen’s nerve endings electrified and stood at attention, wanting and waiting for more of him. She could feel the energy of his body colliding with hers, pulling her toward him. Only there was something wrong with that, wasn’t there? She searched her memory for why Xander’s touch would be wrong, when all her dreams of him had been so—
Alex is your grandmother’s husband…my father. Xander’s father. Which meant Xander was her grandmother’s son. Which meant he was Isleen’s uncle. That made every dream she had of him—every feeling—sick, twisted, and wrong.
Her eyes popped open so fast she nearly lost her lids inside her brainpan.
She yanked her leg from his grasp and threw her body as far from him as the car door would allow. “Don’t touch me. I just can’t…can’t…” Her mind searched for a socially acceptable explanation for her words, but no thoughts floated out of the abyss other than the scream echoing inside her head: You’re my uncle. You’re my uncle.
She shouldn’t be surprised Gran had left out that humongous detail—that she’d had a son. Gran never spoke about her daughter, Isleen’s mom, either. Or the past. Never. Not ever. Gran’s motto—her rule—had always been “Focus forward.”
“Understood.” Fully aimed at her, his face was all hard lines and sharp angles. He probably intimidated most people, but to her, his face—seen so often in her dreams—had always been a salvation. Even his scars. They weren’t angry or ugly; they were beautiful with their intricate, fernlike pattern spreading up his neck to decorate half his face.
He shifted his attention from her and aimed it out the windshield. She wanted to do something, say something, so he’d turn those gorgeous tawny eyes on her again, but that was stupid and risky. It wouldn’t take a Mensa member to see she was love-starved and Xander was her favorite food. With effort, she forced herself to look forward at the driveway leading to her new life.
Xander drove them through an emerald forest toward a rainbow of color. The woods surrounding the car were a painter’s palette of greens, from chartreuse to deepest sage. Dusk hugged the edges of the landscape, and ahead of them at a large opening in the trees, violent hues of scarlet tipped bruised clouds. A breathy gasp escaped her lips. She didn’t want to look away. Monochromatic color had dominated her existence for so long that she had to blink back tears at the overstimulation.
Emotion burned the back of her throat and watered her eyes. She swiped away the wetness before it could streak down her cheeks. “It’s stunning.”
“Wait until you actually see the house,” Matt said from the backseat, his tone slightly sarcastic and laced with a dash of admiration. At least he wasn’t being nasty.