Caged (Mastered, #4)(33)

At least not here.

He pushed the cart outside. As soon as he’d opened the hatchback, she got in his face.

His mouth was on hers before she’d uttered a word. The kiss wasn’t sweet and gentle. It was decisive. When she eased back to speak her mind, he murmured, “Let it go.”

And so she did.

Back at the motel, Deacon carried in the groceries while she put everything away. She fixed her favorite comfort food for lunch—canned chicken noodle soup and deviled ham sandwiches. Halfway through the meal, the reality of why she needed comfort food hit her. The first couple of tears fell in silence. But then they came too hard and fast to maintain decorum.

When the first sob broke free, Deacon picked her up and carried her to the couch.

? ? ?

THE sobbing woman in his arms was killing him.

Killing. Him.

Fuck.

He rarely felt helpless, but he sure as hell did now. Molly’s keening wails might just do him in.

Deacon pressed his lips into her hair. Her tears dampened his shirt. How was he supposed to comfort her?

First off, don’t be a dickhead.

Amery’s warning had given him pause after he’d stormed into Hardwick Designs Monday morning, demanding to know where Molly had gone. Hearing that Molly’s grandmother had died was bad enough. But when Amery shared her concern about Molly being back in her hometown and dealing with her family members, who had had made her life hell, he’d booked the next flight to Nebraska.


Molly’s sobs had morphed into hiccups. Then she wiggled to free herself from his embrace.

“Where are you goin’?”

“To get a tissue.”

He released her.

She pushed off his lap and shut herself in the bathroom.

Deacon got up and waited for her.

When Molly finally emerged, she jumped at seeing him leaning against the doorjamb to the bedroom. “I’m sorry I’m such a blubbering mess.”

“Come here.”

“But I’m better now,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “so I’ll just go clean up the kitchen—”

“I said come here.”

“Deacon—”

“Now.”

“Fine.” She marched over to him. “What?”

Deacon curled his hands around her shoulders. “You need to crawl into bed.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Bull.” He turned her and gave her a gentle push toward the bed. “In.”

She stopped at the edge of the bed and stared at the neatly folded-back covers. “Did you do this?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you fluff my pillows too?”

He dropped his hands to her hips. “Babe. I draw the line at that.”

Molly snorted and crawled between the sheets fully clothed.

He pulled the covers over her and smoothed his hand over her hair.

She closed her eyes and sighed. “If I ask nicely, will you stay here with me? Just until I fall asleep?”

Say no. You’re not a f*cking monk. If you lie next to her, you’ll be hard as a brick. You want a repeat of last night? Thinking of Iceland as you’re in her warm bed, feeling her curves pressed against you, with her scent tempting you as you listened to her soft sleep noises? Say no. Say hell no.

But Deacon found himself crawling onto the mattress and curling in behind her. The comforter wasn’t much of a barrier between their bodies, but it was enough.

For now.

His lack of sleep caught up with him, and he drifted off.

The dream always started the same. Surrounded by fog as thick and sticky as a spider’s web. But he was safe inside. Then ghostly fingers crept in through the air vents, covering his mouth and eyes.

So wet and cold. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. Where were they? He opened his mouth to call out, but their names bounced back as if he’d shouted against a wall.

In the next instant the fog dissipated and an image appeared in the distance. A ridged gray and black object. Getting closer and closer.

A tree.

He stared wide-eyed as the massive oak morphed into a talking tree from The Wizard of Oz. The knothole became a mouth open in a silent scream at the moment of impact.

Then the screams became real.

Not his screams, he thought as darkness overcame him.

Breathe, man. Come on!

Then he was floating, watching the scene above his own body, lying lifeless on the gurney along the side of the road.

The EMT yelled at him to breathe, to fight.

Not to die.

He felt his soul being sucked away, vanishing into nothingness like the fog, forever gone. Like he never was.

Until excruciating pain had him gasping for breath.

“That’s it,” a disembodied voice said. “You’re a fighter. Stay with me.”

Deacon shot upright in bed. His heart hammering, his body bathed in sweat, his hands clenched into fists so tight he couldn’t get them unclenched.

It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.

Except . . . it was.

In a panic he glanced over at Molly, afraid his thrashing around had awoken her. Or worse, his scream.

Thankfully, she remained curled into herself, still asleep.

Deacon carefully eased off the bed. He never wanted her to see him like this. Shaken. Haunted.