Solid Heart (Unseen Enemy Book 7)

by Marysol James

  “Understood.”

  “Good.” King glanced over at Mark and Dallas. “So. Shall we go and see who’s home?”

  **

  Francine tensed when she heard the tap at the bathroom door. She’d been expecting it, of course, and enjoying these last few minutes of peace.

  But peace was over. The nightmare was upon her.

  “Come in!” she called.

  The door swung open, and there he stood. She smiled at him from the bathtub, fought to not cover her naked body. She’d used a metric ton of bubbles, both for the glorious scent and as a shield. It was a lost cause, she knew, but she’d needed that extra little bit of foamy protection for her sanity.

  Henri stepped in to the room, his eyes fixed on her. He shut the door, advanced.

  She stretched out one arm. “Join me, mon amour.”

  “With pleasure,” he said in a low voice, already yanking off his clothes. She forced herself to look at his naked body with appreciation, and his eyes clouded with lust at her frank perusal. “You like what you see, chérie?”

  “Very much,” she purred. “You know what else I like?”

  “What?”

  “Having someone wash my back.”

  His semi-hard cock swelled now, and Francine almost gagged. Oh, God, this was actually happening. She was inviting a violent, twisted man in to a bubble bath with her… and she was sure that only one of them would be stepping out again.

  But close enough for him to fuck her, was close enough for her to fight him.

  So. She had to let him close.

  Then she had to fight.

  Henri climbed in, and within seconds, he was on her. The tub was large, large enough for at least four people, and he shoved her up against the side roughly. His kisses were desperate and dark, and Francine closed her eyes, seeking that final bit of courage to do what had to be done.

  His mouth was on her neck, his tongue running over the purple bruises there. “Still hurts?”

  “Non,” she lied. “I’m alright.”

  “I’m going to make you feel nothing but pleasure,” he said. “Over and over again.”

  She shuddered, hoped that he mistook revulsion for desire.

  When he sat with his legs extended and pulled her up on his body, she knew that this was her chance, maybe her last chance. She wrapped her legs around his lower back, one arm clutching his shoulder, her lips on his, so hot and passionate. But her other hand snaked under the towel that she’d carefully placed on the floor next to the sunken tub. Her fingers touched the metal of the corkscrew tip, slid up to the wooden handle, grasped it firmly.

  Slowly. Slowly. Don’t give yourself away.

  Not giving herself time to think about what she was about to do – the time for thinking is long, long over – she raised the corkscrew above their heads. She pulled him closer to her naked curves, held him tighter against her mouth. He groaned, ran his hands down her body, ran them over her thighs, intent on stroking between her legs.

  Now!

  She plunged the corkscrew down hard, as hard as she could, aiming for the back of his neck. She made contact with his shoulder, twisted, wrenched the corkscrew free, lifted, lowered again. Again. And again.

  Henri had gone rigid with shock at the first blow; by the fourth, he was screaming in agony. He reared up and tried to get away, but Francine followed him, pushed down on him from her elevated position. She kept stabbing him, uncaring where she hit him now, just wanting to make contact. The water around them was red, the bubbles splattered with flesh.

  When he fell back and slid away, she scrambled on the slippery bathtub bottom, trying to gain purchase, managed to keep ahold of his one arm. She braced herself with one foot on his chest, her back against the side of the tub, and tugged him forward.

  She stabbed him again, this time aiming for his eyes. He moved his head at the last possible second, and she drove the sharp metal deep in to his cheek. Once, twice, three times, and Henri fell backwards in to the water. Unmoving and silent, his eyes shut, he went limp.

  Gasping harshly, Francine pulled herself out of the tub. Still gripping the bloody corkscrew, she grabbed the towel, ran out of the bathroom. She skidded in to the living room, knowing that she had to find the damn car keys.

  She was soaking wet, and it was freezing cold outside, and she had no clue where she was. She’d seen lights and cabins a few miles away, but she wasn’t totally sure which way they were. Stumbling around in the dead of winter in the mountains was not the smart move here – she needed to drive.

  She checked his coat pockets, came up empty. She checked the drawers in the cabinet next to the door, looked for a key hook, a knick-knack bowl, anything. But no keys.

  The thought hit her now, with the force of a freight train.

  The keys were in his jeans…and his jeans were on the bathroom floor.

  No goddamn way she was going back in there. She’d seen her fair share of horror movies, watched the idiot characters run upstairs instead of out the front door, watched the heroines pull TSTL moves like going back to the ‘dead’ body, only to get grabbed around the ankle.

  She’d take her chances on foot before she’d go anywhere near him, ever again. Maybe he was dead, maybe he wasn’t… but she wasn’t going back in there to check out the situation.

  Fuck. That.

  Her mind made up to head down the mountain and find a main road, she wrapped the towel around her soaked hair, stuffed her bare feet in to her boots, and grabbed Henri’s massive, thickly-lined coat, lifted the hood, found his gloves. She saw a flashlight on the kitchen counter, ran over to get it. She checked it, saw that the beam was strong and steady. She flicked it off, turned, and dashed back across the living room, headed for the door.

  She almost made it. She was so damn close: her hand on the door handle, her feet ready to run.

  But ‘close’ isn’t ‘away’; ‘close’ isn’t ‘safe’.

  ‘Close’ is just ‘close’.

  And Francine was close… but not away, and definitely not safe.

  The blow hit her from behind, and at first, Francine was too surprised to feel pain. The pain came a few seconds later, and she gave a cry as she spun to face him.

  He was bleeding heavily, moving slowly. She’d hurt him, hurt him badly, and she was savagely glad. Maybe if she hurt him just a bit more, she’d be able to get free.

  She’d put the corkscrew in the coat pocket. She went for it now, gripped the wooden handle. When he came at her again, she drove it forward, caught him in the chest. Blood spurted, hitting the wall next to her.

  He roared in fury, backhanded her. Her head flew back and slammed in to the door, and he was on her.

  He may have been hurt, and he may have been lean, but he still had about fifty pounds on her – and those extra fifty pounds were working in his favor now. Henri had Francine on her back, his hands around her throat. She grappled and scrambled to get ahold of his hands, cutting his forearms with her nails, stabbing him with the corkscrew, and he slammed the back of her head down on the floor.

  “Fucking bitch,” he hissed, blood dripping from his cheek on to her face. “You’re just begging to die, aren’t you?”

  She twisted, hard, managed to unseat him. She rolled once, twice, almost got to her knees. But he was on her again and this time, he was on her back, and she was trapped on her stomach.

  Helpless.

  Henri ripped the coat off her, wrenched the corkscrew from her hand, threw it across the room. He covered her with his length, his hand between her legs, probing her tender folds. She screamed, fighting as hard as she could, and he gripped her hair and pounded her head on to the floor. Once, twice.

  Darkness descended.

  Through the black around the edges of her vision, Francine felt blood running from her split forehead, felt his finger force its way insid
e her. His breath was hot in her ear, his cock was hard on her lower back. He rubbed himself against her, and used his knees to push her thighs open.

  “I thought I wanted to fuck you slow and sweet,” he muttered to her. “But really? This is what I wanted chérie. This is what I’ve always wanted. How I’ve always imagined it.”

  With that, he started to live out his fantasy: he wrapped his hand around her throat, started to throttle her. Francine choked, kicked, struggled. But it was no use, she knew. She’d walked on to this field of battle and she’d given it her best shot – but she wasn’t going to be the one to survive the last stand.

  It was over.

  With his free hand, he lined up his cock, ready to plunge inside her almost-limp body. He lifted her hips, slammed her head down one last time as she struggled weakly.

  “Stay down, whore,” he grunted. “Stay the fuck down.”

  Dizzy, sick, exhausted, Francine closed her eyes now. Prayed hard for the darkness to take her away before she felt him inside her.

  Prayed hard that it would all be over quickly. One way or the other.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For the rest of his life, Mark would remember what he saw when he kicked down that cabin door.

  Francine was sprawled out on the living room floor, face-down, her arms stretched above her head. She was naked, and bloody, and she looked unconscious. At least, Mark hoped that she was unconscious.

  Henri Delacroix was also naked, also bloody, and he was on top of her. His hips were moving in a furious rhythm as he rubbed himself on Francine. He was trying to get inside her body; he was trying to get inside the woman that Mark cared about more than anything on the entire damn planet. He was almost inside her.

  Mark’s whole world went black with rage. Without a word, without a single second of hesitation, he launched himself at the other man. In one furious movement, Mark yanked him off Francine, threw him against the wall. Delacroix ricocheted, bounced hard enough to actually come back towards Mark. He was good with that, though, since he now had an excuse to pummel the rapist fucker until he was dead.

  Mark raised his muscled arm as Delacroix flew back towards him, stunned and shocked, totally out of control. His fist made direct contact with the asshole’s face, breaking his nose with a single blow. He had a taste of blood now, of crunching bone, and he gripped Delacroix’s hair, held him in place, kept punching.

  “Mark! Don’t, man! Don’t kill him…”

  Arms grabbed him from behind. Huge, strong arms, arms that normally might be able to hold and subdue him, but he was beyond reason, beyond stopping. He didn’t care who it was behind him, he’d beat them senseless, too. His girl was hurt, broken, maybe violated… and now someone had to pay for that.

  He snarled, tore himself away from Dallas’ restraining arms. Delacroix’s face was a mushy, pulpy mess already, and he was bleeding heavily from his neck and back, but Mark didn’t give a flying fuck. He delivered punishing blow after devastating blow, his right arm aching, his whole body concentrated on getting as much force behind each punch as possible.

  “Mark…”

  It was a weak, frightened voice, barely audible over his pounding blood, but he heard it as clear as day. He froze, turned to look behind him. Nothing in the universe could have stopped him from killing Delacroix – nothing except her saying his name, saying it exactly like that.

  Francine was half-sitting up, wrapped in King’s coat, wrapped in his careful embrace. Mark's stomach clenched at that – I should have covered her up, and I should be the one holding her – and she was fighting to keep her eyes open. She was shaking, confused, terrified. She was all alone, and she needed him.

  He dropped Delacroix to the floor unceremoniously, not giving a shit that the unconscious man fell heavily and smashed his head. All Mark saw now was Francine.

  He sat down beside her, and King moved out of the way. Mark tightened the coat around her naked body, held her close. She was so damn small, smaller than he remembered. How was that even possible? What did that fucker take from her, to leave her this hollow and shrunken?

  “Babe,” he whispered roughly. “I’m right here. It’s all over. I’ve got you now.”

  “It’s over?” she said in a hushed voice, limp and fragile against him. “This is – this is real?”

  “It’s real, sugar. Real as my heartbeat… feel.” He took her ice-cold hand gently, held it to his still-racing heart. “That’s my heart, Francine. You feel it?”

  Her eyes drifted shut again, and he felt panic move up his entire body as she slumped in his arms.

  “Francine?” Mark pressed frantic kisses to her face, avoiding the cuts and bruises marring her perfect skin. “Can you hear me?”

  No answer.

  “Francine? Francine!” The second time that he said her name, it came out as a shout. “Open your eyes. Please, open your eyes. Look at me… babe, look at me.”

  “Mark.” Dallas was next to him, watching him closely. “She’s out, man.”

  “Fuck.” Mark held her as tightly as he dared, rocked her back and forth, willing her to be OK. “Wake up, sugar, wake up for me. C’mon now… wake up. That’s all I need you to do.”

  “It’s better if she’s out right now,” Dallas said gently. “She’s in pain, and she’s scared. Let her have this peace, Mark. When she comes to, she won’t know real peace for a long, long time. Let her have it, just for this little while.”

  Mark knew he was right, knew that for the rest of her time on earth, everything was going to be ‘before’ and ‘after’ Henri Delacroix coming for her. That prick had changed the landscape of her whole life: he’d inserted himself in to it, permanently. He’d marked her so completely, so deeply, that she was never, ever going to be able to forget him. She’d never be truly free of him, and Mark’s heart actually hurt at the thought.

  He’d do anything to make her forget. He’d die, if that’s what it took. He’d kill, maim, steal, go to hell and back again, anything, anything to erase that twisted, warped line between ‘before’ and ‘after’.

  But it was done. That line was drawn, drawn in pain and tears and blood. It was carved deep in to Francine’s body, mind, heart. It was a part of her now.

  And he hated himself for letting this happen to her.

  **

  Voices. Faint, distant, blurry. But definitely voices. One in particular seemed especially familiar, and Francine strained to hear what was being said.

  “But why isn’t she waking up?” said the familiar voice. “It’s been two fucking days!”

  “That’s not unusual,” said a female voice that Francine didn’t know at all. “She’s completely exhausted, and her mind has shut her body down, so she can start to cope with everything that happened. She’ll wake up soon.”

  “You said that yesterday!” the first voice said. “What does ‘soon’ even mean to you?”

  “Mark.” Another male voice, a deep one with a drawl. “Calm down, man. You’re no good to Francine when you’re freaking out, OK?”

  Mark! Francine fought to open her eyes, struggled to sit up, or even just to move, but she couldn’t do it. Her whole body felt like it was encased in concrete: heavy, immobile, rock-solid. She tried to speak, or even to make a sound – God, just a tiny sound, come on now – but her throat wasn’t working, either. So she lay there, cradled in the hands of the darkness, listening.

  “Seriously, Dallas?” Mark again. “You’re actually gonna tell me to stay calm? I saw you after what happened to Liv, remember, and you were not even remotely in the neighborhood of calm. You were, in fact, a fucking raving lunatic, so don’t you stand there and lecture me about not being angry. At least you had the satisfaction of killing the asshole who hurt your girl. I didn’t even get that much.”

  Francine puzzled over that for a few seconds, trying to figure out who Mark was talking about… and that
was when it hit her. Henri Delacroix. The safe house. The cabin. The tub. The desperate flight from the bathroom. He’d been naked, she’d been naked, and he’d been on top of her. His finger had been inside her.

  Oh, God.

  Panicked now, desperate to wake up, frantic to hear where that monster was and what the hell he’d done to her, she struggled harder against the heavy darkness. But it was no good, no good at all. She wasn’t strong enough to push past the weighted shadows, and she fell in to a deep well of endless night. She was out long before she hit bottom.

  **

  The next time Francine emerged from the pillowy dark, all was quiet. She tried once again to open her eyes; once again, she failed. That was when Mark started talking to her.

  His voice was rough, low, husky. Like he’d been shouting for days, or needed to drink some water. It had an undercurrent of rage, and that made her tense up, made her think about panicking, until she heard the sweet words that he was murmuring to her.

  “I don’t know if you can hear me, babe, but the doctor says there’s a chance that you might be able to. So I figure if there’s even the smallest chance that you’re aware on some level, I’m gonna talk to you… let you know that you’re not alone. I’m here, sugar, and I’m holding your hand. You feel it?”

  A pause, and now Francine focused on her hands, trying to feel Mark’s skin on hers. And – yes. Yes, there was a soft, gentle pressure on her right hand, a solid warmth that she hadn’t noticed before. She felt him, and her panic went down a few levels.

  He spoke again. “You’re safe. You’re away from him, and he’s never coming near you, not ever again. That’s a promise, and a guarantee. I’ll die before I let him touch you… I’ll die for you. I’ll do anything to make it better, and I’ll give you anything you need to get past this. I’ll be anything you need.”