In His Keeping (Slow Burn #2)(90)

In this moment, he didn’t care. He wanted compliance. Instant and unquestioning obedience. He locked his fierce gaze with his wife’s equally fierce stare. Because if by forcing her compliance, she stayed alive—unharmed—she could be pissed at him for the next twenty years and he’d be more than happy to grovel every single day of those two decades.

“I can’t lose you both,” Gavin said hoarsely, his voice cracking with emotion. “Stay where you are, Ginger! Let me see to Ari. I can’t afford to have my concentration split between you and our daughter. I need to know you are out of harm’s way. Do this for me. Please.”

Some of the stark, vulnerable fear that weakened him to his knees must have shone in his face because Ginger’s eyes softened, and she simply nodded, though her gaze immediately flitted beyond Gavin, her eyes anxious and seeking now as they awaited their daughter.

For one brief moment, he leaned in and pressed his lips against her forehead, closing his eyes. His sweet, loving and forgiving wife. It was bad enough that she’d endured such torment over the last days. But now these f*ckers had Ari? The only solace they’d found was in the fact that Ari hadn’t been taken. Despair shoved aside the hope that she was someplace safe. Out of harm’s way. Because she wasn’t. She was here. In this hell with him and her mother and he’d never felt so goddamn helpless in his life at his inability to protect the people who mattered the most to him.

He reluctantly broke away from his wife, but he had to see what had been done to his daughter. He rushed back to the bars, straining forward to better see in the dimly lit hallway. The cell was lit by only a single bulb, one he purposely turned off at night when he slept, Ginger between him and the wall so he was a barrier between her and anyone coming into the cell.

His reason was twofold. One, in the darkness, holding, touching his wife, he—they—could forget for the space of a few stolen moments that they were being held captive by unknown people for an equally unknown reason. And two, darkness bothered Ginger immensely, except for at night when she slept, curled into his protective embrace. If he left it lit all the time, it would eventually burn out and it was doubtful it would be replaced, especially if Ginger displayed any sign of distress over the loss of the single source of illumination.

He strained his eyes, only seeing what Ginger had seen. The unmistakable color of Ari’s hair, though her head was downcast, only the crown of her hair visible. He tensed, realizing she was being dragged between two men and neither was taking the slightest bit of care in their handling of her.

He bit back a string of oaths, knowing that they would derive great pleasure in giving him even more reason to protest, and the last thing he wanted was more hurt for his daughter.

He watched for any sign of . . . life. Movement. His chest burned, oxygen trapped in his lungs as they compressed and squeezed even tighter in sheer, gut-wrenching panic.

She was listless. Unmoving on her own. She was jerked along like a puppet or rather a doll being dragged behind a child by a single arm. Her hair was tousled, strands going in a dozen different directions. It looked tangled and in complete disarray.

His gut clenched even harder as he imagined all the possible reasons for a woman to look as she did. He turned, ensuring Ginger was heeding his order, something he never gave his wife unless it had to do with her or Ari’s safety.

Her gaze leapt to his in question, her entire body surging forward, though she gripped the edge of the cot with her fingers as though to prevent herself from flying forward to see for herself. God, if he could only shield her from this. If he could have only shielded her and Ari both. The weight of his mistakes, his failures, weighed heavily on his heart and mind, but for now he had to push past his guilt and overwhelming sense of helplessness and figure out a way to get his family out.

Finally the long path down the hallway brought Ari close enough for Gavin to look closer. Still unmoving, hair in disarray, bruises . . . He bit back a savage oath as he took in the purple blotches, the size of fingerprints, on her arms and shoulders. She was wearing only a thin tank top and then he froze when one of the guards jerked her in his direction so the other could unlock the cell.

The movement sent the hair that tumbled forward over her shoulders, covering most of her chest, to the side and he saw the white tank top turn scarlet before his very eyes. His heart seized, terror slamming his airway shut.

It—and she—were bathed in blood.

“Back up!” the guard with the key barked at Gavin.

As if reinforcing the other guard’s demand, the man holding Ari hauled her more upright, shaking her like the rag doll Gavin had likened her to as she’d been dragged down the hall. Behind him, Ginger gasped in horror and then cried out in utter despair, “Ari!”

His wife’s agonized cry shook Gavin from his momentary stupor and torment. He lunged for the bars, hitting them so hard they shook and rattled as he roared his rage, forgetting all about his worry that his reaction would incite them to further malice.

Desperately, he thrust his arms through the thick bars, straining forward, trying to reach his daughter. Trying to get his hands on the men responsible.

“Get back!” one of the men snarled, though he took a hasty step backward even as he uttered the command, ensuring he was well out of Gavin’s reach.

The one not holding Ari brandished a stun gun, the same one he’d used on Gavin before. This time he aimed it not at Gavin, but at Ginger, who now stood upright beside the cot, her face sheet-white as she stared at her bloodied daughter.