Hell Breaks Loose (Devil's Rock #2)(52)

The thought jarred her.

It wheedled into her consciousness. She felt safe. He made her feel safe. A surprising thought. She felt safe with him, a dangerous man that she knew she shouldn’t trust.

She tried to shove it out, but the feeling persisted, a jagged rusty little nail that found its way loose to burrow under her skin.

She squeezed her eyes tight in a long blink and then opened them again to the dusk-shrouded room. It had happened then. She had devolved into full-on Stockholm syndrome. She was past the point of identifying with her abductor. With him there were . . . feelings. Feelings that were decidedly un-captive-like.

Except he wasn’t really her abductor. At least not initially. A point not to be overlooked. It was the other guys who haunted her nightmare.

God help her, there was that rationalizing again. She was making a distinction . . . defending him.

She sniffed wetly, fighting to regain her composure. He still held her hand, his thumb rubbing the backs of her fingers in a lazy circle. She used her other hand to rub at her eyes, pressing her fingertips against her eyelids to assuage the sting.

She laughed weakly. “You must think me a little kid, crying over a bad dream. Haven’t done that in years.”

“They don’t only happen to children, you know. There’s no shame in them. I’ve had my share of nightmares, too. Every time I close my eyes, they’re there. The things I’ve seen and done . . . they don’t fade from memory easily.” He shifted, stretching out his legs on the bed, their bodies so close, her cheek still pressed to his chest. She kept her face there, inhaling his masculine scent. It was probably safer than looking at his face again. That face did things to her insides.

“How do you deal with that?”

“I make certain that I’m too exhausted to dream when I fall into bed. That’s the goal anyway. In prison, I spent a lot of time working out. Running the yard, playing ball.”

That would explain his amazing body.

He continued, “The good news is that your nightmares will only ever be that. Nightmares. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, Gracie. Wait and see. You’ll be home soon and your nightmares will end.”

Her chest swelled, that feeling of security suffusing her again. “Have yours, then?” she asked. “Now that you’re free of Devil’s Rock? Did your nightmares stop?”

His thumb paused from making that lazy little pattern on the back of her fingers. “Don’t worry about me, princess. I’m a survivor.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I might not be in prison at the moment, but I’m not free. If I feel that way, I’m just kidding myself. It’s an illusion.” And that was maybe the saddest thing she’d ever heard. His hand eased away from hers and he stood up from the bed as if sensing the sentiment and not wanting it from her. “Out here or in there,” he added, his voice harder. “It makes no difference. I’m still not free.”

She stared at his shadowy form, wanting to say something. Give comfort . . . be like Anna for him. Had he had anyone after his grandfather died? Maybe if there had been someone for him his life would have turned out differently?

She gave her head a hard shake. His nightmares were real—something that actually existed when he woke up. She couldn’t vanquish his monsters. There was nothing she could say or do for him and they both knew it. Nor should she feel compelled to.

“I’ll go start dinner.” Turning, he left her sitting on the bed, staring after him.





Seventeen




After he left, she closed the door as if that would be a barrier to him and all the confusing thoughts and feelings crashing through her in wave after wave.

Maybe her father could do something to help him? Maybe he could have a reduced sentence? He’d done nothing short of save her life by removing her from those other men. He deserved no less.

Rubbing a hand against her forehead, her mind tracked over the arguments she could present to her father.

Through the door she could hear the sound of running water as he turned on the kitchen faucet. Then another sound emerged. A steady trilling ring.

Someone was calling him on his burner phone. Her pulse kicked to life. No one had called him since they arrived here. The ringing stopped and she knew he had answered. His deep voice rumbled across the air but too far away for her to catch more than a word or two.

She pressed her ear closer to the door, her breath catching when she thought she heard her name.

It was about her. If someone were calling him, of course it was probably about her. Maybe it was this Sullivan person arranging the details of her release. Her heart jumped.

Unable to resist, she slowly turned the knob, easing the door open. She stepped out, her bare feet treading silently across the wood flooring. He stood in the kitchen in front of the sink, his broad back to her. His words were clearly audible and she froze, not wanting to alert him to her presence. He was quiet at the moment, evidently listening to the voice on the end of the line.

He sighed and ran a hand over the back of his head. She tensed, expecting him to turn around, but he didn’t. Not yet.

“I have,” he said after a while. Then, he added, “Yes. I am. Tell me what you want . . .”

A pause fell.

“What?” he asked. “I thought you wanted to draw this out and really torture the president. Do you think that’s such a good idea?” A longer silence fell. From where she stood, she watched the set to his shoulders grow rigid. Then he replied in a voice that sounded flat and dutiful, like a soldier responding to his superior. “No. That’s not what I think.” A pause, then: “I’ll do it. I’ll kill her. Consider it done.”