Fractured Sky (Tattered & Torn #5)(60)

A flicker of motion caught my attention. The man’s gait, the way he moved, triggered my brain first. He strode across the pavement as if he owned it, his eyes trained directly on me. And they were full of hatred.

My heart pounded against my ribs. I could’ve run, hurried back into the store, and slipped into the back office until he left. But I wouldn’t cower. Not to Ian Kemper.

He stopped just a step away, his nostrils flaring as his gaze swept over me.

I fought the urge to shudder, memories of all those years ago and the recent attack flashing in my mind. But I stood my ground and met his stare. I wouldn’t waver.

Ian’s jaw worked back and forth. “You killed him. You and my bitch of a sister. He died in that hellhole, thanks to you. Never even made it to the hospital.”

I simply stared at him, not saying a word. Nothing I could say would make Ian realize that his father was responsible for his own demise. My words only gave another piece of me away, and Ian and his father already had enough.

Another man snickered as he stepped up next to Ian. “Heard she was messed up in the head. Can’t even talk.”

My eyes narrowed on him. He was older than Ian, likely in his late forties. Taller and broader, too. But his eyes held a hollow quality. Sunken and lifeless.

Ian leaned forward. “You were never what he thought you were. Not special. The only thing you are is worthless.”

Images battered the walls I’d constructed in my mind, memories of sheer terror. I forced them down and stared at Ian. “The only worthless one here is you.”

“Not even worth that sandwich he tried to give you to keep you alive. Should’ve taken you out back and shot you when I had the chance.”

Blood roared in my ears. “That chance is past. I fight back now.”

The man next to him choked on a laugh. “Damn, girl’s got some fire in her. Maybe Howard wasn’t wrong about her, after all.”

The flare of appreciation I saw in his eyes had me swallowing bile. I needed to get away. Now.

I hurried around them, but Ian lashed out, grabbing my arm. I reacted on instinct. My hand came up in a palm strike straight to his nose.

Ian released me, letting out a curse as blood gushed down his face.

I didn’t wait, I just picked up to a jog. I was halfway down the block, not sure where I was going, when I pulled my phone from my pocket. I hit Ramsey’s contact before I even knew I’d made the decision.

He picked up on the second ring. “Leaving the feed store?”

“I-I ran into Ian and another guy.”

“Where are you? Did they touch you?”

“He grabbed my arm, and I hit him in the face. I’m fine. I just needed…” I needed Ramsey. To hear his voice. To feel his comfort.

“Go to the sheriff’s department right now. Don’t stop until you’re there.”

I looked around and realized that I was already headed in that direction. “I’m going.”

“I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me until you get there.”

“Okay.” My voice cracked on the word, and I hated the show of weakness.

“Shiloh?”

My body started to shake as the adrenaline left my system. “Yeah?”

“You’re not alone.”





29





RAMSEY





My tires screeched as I pulled into a parking space at the sheriff’s department. I yanked the keys out of the ignition, my hands trembling with the movement, but I barely had time to register the fury blasting through my system because I was already running up the front steps.

It was a miracle I’d made it to the station in one piece. I didn’t remember most of the drive there. All I knew was that I’d yelled something half-intelligible to Aidan and took off for my truck.

Yanking open the door, I charged inside. “Hayes?”

The question came out as more of a demand, and the young officer behind the desk casually placed a hand on the butt of his holstered service weapon. “Do you have an appointment?”

I wondered if he’d shoot me if I went for the door that likely led to the offices. This all wasted too much time.

The door swung open, and a woman with inky black hair and features that spoke of her indigenous ancestry stepped through. “I’ve got him, Smith.” She inclined her head in an order for me to follow her. I didn’t hesitate.

She wove her way through a sea of desks, about two-thirds full. Some officers ignored us, while others stared blatantly.

“Shiloh’s fine. Hand might be smarting a little, but that’s it.”

I didn’t say a word, but fury blazed to life again, pumping through my system, heating my blood, and squeezing my heart.

The officer knocked on a door that read Sheriff Easton.

“Come in,” Hayes said.

She opened the door but didn’t enter, stepping aside so that I could pass.

I moved quickly, my gaze immediately going to Shiloh. She turned her head in my direction, and those ice-blue eyes were like a sucker punch to the gut, though not in the usual way that had me fighting attraction—in a way that had me wanting to commit murder.

There was fear—I read it the same way I did in the horses that came to me from the worst circumstances—and Ian Kemper had put it there.