Francine strained hard to reach out to him, to offer him some comfort. God, the pain in his voice was astonishing: she never thought that she’d hear Mark so hurt. He needed her to open her eyes, open her mouth; needed her to tell him that he was already everything she’d needed, and everything that she’d ever need. But she was paralyzed, mute.
“I’ve got you, Francine. I’m here, and here is where I’m gonna stay, for as long as it takes. Just come back to me, alright? If you come back to me, we can heal everything else. We’ll heal it together. Just – just open your beautiful eyes for me, babe. Wake up. Please… please wake up.”
His voice broke on the last two words, and it was that more than anything which galvanized her to push through the dark barriers holding her prisoner. Mark was worried, and angry, and hurting, and the only thing that was going to make all that stop was for her to wake up. So she did.
Her eyes opened, just a bit. The room swam around her, advanced, retreated. She blinked, blinked hard, and her vision cleared.
The room was semi-lit from the lights in the hallway outside, and she saw Mark’s enormous shadow on the wall next to her. He was sitting in a chair by her bed, his arms resting on the protective bars, his chin on his muscled forearms. He was holding her hand between both of his, and now she felt him tracing slow, small circles on her palm. It was soothing, calming, and she felt the tug of sleep again. She resisted it, though, pushed it away. She had to stay here with him, at least for a little while.
She took a deep breath, released it. He heard the change, and his head jerked up. His incredible eyes were wide and stunned, but in less than a second, they showed nothing but joy.
“Francine.” His one hand slid up to touch her face, so gentle and tender. “Babe… can you hear me?”
She nodded, a small movement that was about all that she could handle.
“Oh, my God.” He leaned closer, and she felt his warmth. “Can you talk?”
She made a sound of sorts, a cross between a moan and a sigh. Now she noticed that her throat felt tight, raw, and she raised her free hand to touch her neck. She winced at the bandages, knowing that she was injured. How badly, she’d have to find out. Later.
“Here.” Mark grabbed a cup with a straw. “Drink some water. Slow and easy, now.”
He lifted her shoulders off the pillow, supported her as she drank. The cool water hit her throat, and she felt blessed relief. She drank a bit more, nodded at Mark. Carefully, so carefully, he eased her back down, then gripped her hands.
“How do you feel?”
“I –” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know. Sore, I guess. Fuzzy.”
He stood up. “I need to get the doctor…”
“No!” She grabbed his hand, her jagged, broken nails cutting in to his skin. “No, don’t leave me!”
“You’re OK.” He spoke quietly. “You’re safe.”
She was shaking now, and he knew he had to calm her down. He sat again, watched as her face relaxed. Surreptitiously, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, and he felt her pulse with his thumb. It was strong and steady, if a bit too fast. Her eyes were clear and alert, and her words and movements were deliberate. Any residual worries he’d had about a head injury faded away, and he settled in to the chair.
“How long have I been out?” she asked after a minute.
“Three days.”
“Oh, God.” She sighed. “Where am I?”
“Still in Vermont.”
She shut her eyes. “And where is –” Her voice trailed off, and she found that she just couldn’t say his name. “– he?”
“Two floors down, handcuffed to his bed.”
She stared at him, and he saw that the fear was back.
“He’s got two cops with him at all times, sugar, and you’re never alone, I promise you. We’ve got you.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Me, Dallas, Ian Neilson, and an associate of ours named King. We never leave your side. They went back to the hotel about two hours ago, since I stay here with you overnight. I insist on that.”
She looked at him closely now, took in his unshaven cheeks, his messy hair, his exhaustion. Mark looked happy, though, and she took another deep breath.
“Emma and her baby? Olivia? All the women and kids at the safe house?”
Mark smiled for the first time in almost a week, and shook his head with affection. That was pure Francine, wasn’t it? Lying beaten and bruised in a strange hospital room after having barely survived a kidnapping – and one of the first things she asked about was how other people were doing.
Goddamn, he loved her. Yeah, he did. He loved her.
“Everyone’s fine,” he said. “You did real good, getting that sick fuck out of there. Alexandra and Liv got Emma to the medical ward, Alexandra started things up and held the fort until I got there.”
“You delivered the baby?”
“I did.”
“Did Dean make it in time?”
“Oh, yeah.” Mark grinned. “He was there to see the birth of his son. Everyone’s healthy.”
“Thank God,” she said. “I was so worried.”
“Nah.” He stroked her hair, and she relaxed in to his touch. “Don’t be worried, not about anything or anyone.”
Tiredness was creeping over her again, she was dismayed to discover. She wanted to fight it, but it was a battle far larger than she was ready to take on. Against her will, her eyes fluttered shut.
“Francine?”
She heard the concern in that single word, forced her eyes open. “I’m just tired, Mark.”
“OK.” He held her hands tighter. “Close your eyes, then, and get some more rest.”
“Mark?”
“Right here, babe.”
“Can you get in to bed with me?”
He went very still. “I wish I could, but I’m way too big. If I got in there with you, I’m afraid that you wouldn’t be comfortable… and you need your sleep.”
“I need you,” Francine said, her voice shaking. “I need you to hold me. Please.”
He looked at her for a long, long moment, and he must have seen how close she was to tears, how close she was to the edge of hysteria, because he stood up. He slipped off his boots, lifted the heavy blankets off her body. She shivered when the air hit her skin, and right away, he slid in next to her, turned on his side, covered them both up. She was sandwiched between the wall and his huge body, and the feeling of security was almost overwhelming.
Mark pulled her to him, cradling her like she was breakable, like she was the most precious thing that he’d ever held. His one arm was tucked under her pillow, the other was curled around her waist, and Francine automatically cuddled closer, her hands on his broad chest. His strength was immense, even all coiled up and held back, and she let it comfort her, keep her safe.
“Babe,” he whispered against the top of her head. “Doing OK?”
She nodded against his chest.
“I’m not crushing you?”
She shook her head, then hesitated. “Mark?”
He heard it in her voice; he knew what she was about to ask. He held her closer, waited for her to get out the words. He knew she had to articulate what she was most afraid of.
“Yeah?” He kept his tone level, inviting. She needed to know that he was here, no matter what had happened to her. “What’s on your mind?”
“Did – did he –” Francine sucked in a breath, called upon all her reserves of courage. “Did he – rape me?”
“No.” Mark stroked her back, up and down, so slow and tender. “No. We got there in time.”
“Oh, God.” She trembled, and he dropped a reassuring kiss on her hair. “Really?”
“I promise. He was – he was trying.” Mark saw no reason to elaborate on that. “But he didn’t manage it. From the looks of
that bathroom, you put up one hell of a fight, and from the looks of his back and face, you hurt him badly. That slowed him down, for damn sure, and then we arrived. Stopped him completely before he got too far.”
“I knew you’d come for me.” She traced his collarbone with the tip of one finger. “I knew that I just had to – to hold him off as long as possible, give you time to find Mary-Anne and find out where the cabin was.” She shook harder as the terror washed over her again. “I knew you’d find me. I didn’t doubt that for one second. It’s just…”
“What, babe?”
“…I was scared you might not make it in time,” she said, and her voice was shaking as hard as her body. “I was so, so scared.”
She wept now – at last, finally – and he held her. He couldn’t do anything else, after all, but it seemed that that was what she needed from him. Maybe it was all that she needed, full-stop.
**
Francine surfaced slowly, swimming towards the golden sunlight above. She felt warm and cozy, and she nestled deeper in to the soft blanket that she somehow found herself surrounded by. She sighed, tried to turn over. It was when she couldn’t move that she stiffened, and it was when powerful arms clamped around her, holding her in place, that she panicked.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried. “Henri, non! Laissez-moi!”
“Francine. Francine, you’re safe.”
“Non!” she said again, fighting hard. “Non!”
“Francine.” The voice was soft, low. “Shhhh, now. It’s Mark, sugar, and you’re OK. Just open your eyes, and you’ll see that it’s me.”
She sobbed, still struggling, still ensnarled in her half-dream state.
Two large hands held her face, held her steady. “I’m right here waiting for you, so just come on back to me when you’re ready. Come back, babe.”
She stilled, her mind starting to tell her to calm down. In her whole life, only one man had ever asked her to come back to him; only one man had ever called her ‘babe’ with that intoxicating mix of heat and sweetness.
Francine’s eyes shot wide open, and she stared up at him. God, that perfect face. So handsome, so rugged – and right now, so damn worried.
“Mark,” she whispered.
“Yeah, babe.” He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, held her frightened gaze. “Just breathe for me, alright? I’ve got you.”
“I – I –” She swallowed, for the first time noticing that it was morning. “I’m afraid.”
“I know you are, and you will be for a while, but with help and support, you’re going to get through it. You know that, right? You’ve dedicated your whole life to helping people do just that, and so you know how empowering it is. How important.”
She nodded, her breath slowing down now. “Yes.”
“And I’m going to be next to you, every step of the way.” Mark kissed her lips now, a kiss so feather-light, it felt like a whisper. “I’m not leaving you, OK? Not ever.”
“OK,” she said, accepting the hand that he was extending to her across the chasm of her trauma and terror. “OK.”
**
“So.” Doctor Laura Allan smiled at Francine. “Let’s go over it, OK?”
Francine nodded.
“Mr. Hayden.” Laura glanced over at Mark. “If we could get some privacy?”
“No, it’s fine,” Francine said. “Mark’s been here every day and every night for five days… he knows everything. I have nothing to hide from him.”
“You sure?” Laura asked.
“I’m sure.”
“Alright. You’re the boss.” Laura looked down at the chart in her hands. “We’ll be releasing you tomorrow morning. Your head injuries have healed nicely, and everything else is superficial. No signs of infection from the stitches, the swelling on your neck is totally gone, and your mobility is good.”
Laura paused, shot Mark another look.
“The injuries to your – between your thighs are almost healed, Francine. As you know, it was bad bruising from him trying to assault you, and you had scratches from his fingernails. From when he scratched you – inside. We were worried about infection, but there was none. There is none. Your blood work has come back negative for anything that you might need to worry about.”
Francine shut her eyes as that memory returned full-force. Henri on top of her, his hand between her spread thighs, bruising her soft flesh, his thick fingers stabbing at her dry, closed sex. She sucked in air, trying to fight down the wave of revulsion that threatened to overwhelm her.
“Babe?” Mark was at her side in a second, holding her hand. “You good?”
Francine forced her eyes open, and his gaze darkened at her tears.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Mark hissed under his breath. “C’mon, sugar. Talk to me.”
“I’m – I’m OK.” Her voice was weak and shaky, even to her own ears. “I just – I was remembering when he… he put his fingers inside me.”
Automatically, Mark’s hand tightened on hers, and he fought like hell to ease off, stay gentle. The last thing she needed was him angry or rough, but fuck. He was only human. The fact that the man who had hurt Francine so badly was lounging in some Vermont prison hospital wing was like a thorn buried under his skin, worrying and annoying him unceasingly.
Since she’d landed in that bed, bloody, broken, unconscious, Mark had refused to leave Francine’s room, refused to leave her alone overnight. Despite the nurses’ protestations, he’d slept in her bed for the past two nights, holding her as she jerked awake from a nightmare, holding her as she slept peacefully.
In some of his darkest, angriest moments, he’d seriously wished that he’d killed Delacroix when he’d had the chance – and then he realized that him being alive or dead wasn’t going to change anything for Francine. Not really.
Dallas, Ian and King had returned to Denver two days before, and Mark had been glad. Yeah, it had been great to have them here, taking it in shifts to watch Francine so he could crash out on the tiny sofa in her room for two hours at a time. But now he wanted her all to himself. He wanted everything to be between them now.
Two days earlier, Mark had sat and held her hand, frozen with horror and rage, as she’d given her full statement to the police. He now knew everything that she’d been through, everything that she’d survived. He knew how she’d manipulated Delacroix, how she’d played him for time, how she’d protected herself. She’d been defenceless and weaponless, but she hadn’t been helpless… she’d demonstrated a strength, courage, and presence of mind that had left Mark in awe. He was still in awe of her.
Now, all that Mark longed for was to create a little world with just him and Francine, even just for a little while. He wanted her to talk to him openly about that nightmare car trip, cry when she needed to, stay silent and contemplative when she had things to sort through in her head. He wanted her to lean on him, turn to him, confide in him.
And his part in all of this was to keep the rest of the world out, as much as he could. His role, as he saw it, was to construct Francine a warm, safe place where she could just heal. In her own time, in her own way.
Mark’s rage, and violent thoughts, and yearning for revenge, had no place whatsoever in that world, so he stepped down hard now, kicked down his own anger.
“You’re OK,” he said now, calm and gentle and back in control. “He’s not here, and he’s never going to get close to you again.”
Francine swiped at her tears. She tried to give Laura a smile, managed to produce a tiny one. “What else?”
Laura glanced at the chart again, flipped a few pages. “Nothing more from me, Francine. Nothing physical.”
“Alright,” Francine said. “Thank you.”
“Sure.” Laura shut the chart. “I’ll have you released by about ten o’clock tomorrow morning, so you can make any travel arrangements for after that time.”
&nbs
p; Mark and Francine nodded. Laura left the room, and they looked at each other.
“You want to talk?” Mark asked cautiously.
“No.” Francine shook her head. “I want to have a shower.”
He wasn’t surprised: every time that she’d talked about the near-rape, she’d needed to get clean after, to literally scrub the memory of that asshole’s hands right off her skin. She was well aware what she was doing – the cleaning was a powerful, symbolic act, and it was deeply rooted in human psychology – and they’d discussed it more than once.
So Mark helped her get to her feet, supported her as she walked to the private bathroom. He gathered up her shampoo, body wash, and towel, and made sure she was OK to undress herself. Then he gave her a soft kiss, and he left her. He stood right outside the door, listening. Guarding her. Protecting her.
Chapter Sixteen
Three nights later
Mark and Francine were in her bed, curled up together, wearing pyjamas and socks. Mark was between her and the door, his broad back facing the hallway. He physically created a barrier to her; he physically built a wall around their little world.
Two days before, she’d asked him to move her bed against the wall. Without a word, without a single question or comment, he’d done it. He knew that she needed to be snug between his body and the wall, knew that she needed it to feel secure. And all that Mark cared about right this minute was making Francine feel secure.
It seemed to be working, thank Christ. At this moment, Francine was relaxed, more relaxed than Mark had seen her since this whole fucking nightmare had started. He stroked her hair, felt her smile against his chest.
“How you doing?” he asked.
She tipped back her head to regard him in the dim light that was coming in through the mostly-closed door. His eyes blazed down at her, worried, caring, still angry. What this man had done for her, what he continued to do for her, was humbling.
“I’m better,” she replied. “Happy to be home.”
Solid Heart (Unseen Enemy Book 7) Page 21
