Saving Her: A Dark Mafia Duet

by Eden Summers

  “In the hall. And you’d be a better judge of how she’s feeling than I would. All I know is that her tears don’t fill me with giddy optimism.”

  “Tears were inevitable.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just don’t appreciate seeing her like that after everything she’s been through.” He leans forward to massage his thigh with a wince. “Do you two have plans?”

  What the fuck sort of question is that? “Plans for what? Today? This week? The next ten years?”

  His expression doesn’t change. He just eyes me with disinterest. “All of the above.”

  I sit, readjusting myself against the pillows, and eye my clothes on the bedside table. I need to get out of here. “That’s her decision.”

  “Don’t dodge the question. I’m asking if you plan to stick around. Is this thing between you two temporary or long-haul?”

  “I’m not dodging anything. I have every intention of staying by her side. Thick and thin. Good times and bad.”

  Still, there’s no reaction. No protective brotherly response. No encouragement or threat. He either lost a lot of blood from that bullet or something is going on. Something that will require me getting my ass out of here, consequences be damned.

  I tug out my cannula and grab my clothes from the side table. “Do you have more questions?” I slide from the bed, my vision darkening with the movement. “Or are you just going to stand there and admire me all day?”

  He pushes from the wall and shuffles forward, stopping to grab the wooden board at the foot of the bed with both hands.

  I jerk on my jeans, impatiently waiting for whatever brotherly threat he has up his sleeve. “You preparing to hit me again? Is that it?”

  “No, I’m done with that. You’ve proven yourself.”

  I yank up my zipper and clasp the button. “Well, fan-fucking-tastic. Sounds like all my dreams have come true.” I tug off the gown and throw it to the bed. “All I’ve ever wanted is to prove myself to you.”

  He scowls.

  That’s all he does. There’s no snarky retaliation. No threat of violence.

  I’m prepping him to fight and he’s giving me nothing. Something is seriously wrong. “What the hell is going on? Where is she?”

  “Penny’s fine. She’s in the hall. I thought I’d give her a few seconds alone with our parents.”

  “And my brother?” I clench my jaw, tight, hoping like hell I’m not about to be given a death notice.

  He shrugs. “He’s still alive. For now.”

  “Then what the fuck is this really about?” I grab my shirt from the mattress and tug it on. “I know you’re not in here to welcome me to the family.”

  “You’re right. I’m not.” His voice is low as he narrows his eyes on me. “I’m trying to determine how fucked up your head is.”

  I pause in the middle of straightening my shirt. “Why? Because you think I can’t look after your sister?”

  “No. Because there’s shit that needs to be done, and I’m not sure you’re capable.”

  “What shit?” The question comes with hesitance. “Robert’s dead, right? My memory is foggy, but I could’ve sworn—”

  “He’s dead.” His face hardens as he glances toward the door, then returns his attention to me. “Problem is, he wasn’t jerkin’ our chain when he said he had leverage.”

  Adrenaline floods my system, the panic overriding the dull throb in my head to bring some semblance of clarity. “What leverage?”

  He sucks in a breath and straightens. “He took the kids.” His face turns pained, the fear and desperation finally seeping through. “He kidnapped Tobias and Stella, and we’ve got no fucking idea where they are.”

  I hope you enjoyed the Saving Her duet. Are you ready for the final instalment in the Hunting Her series?

  I fell for the enemy. A man whose actions resembled the devil so closely it was sickening. But I learned from my mistakes… At least that’s what I thought.

  Click here for information on Cole (Hunting Her #6)

  Or go back to where the series first began with Hunter (Hunting Her #1).

  Turn the page for an exclusive sneak preview of Cole.

  Cole Sneak Preview

  Please be aware this is an unedited sneak preview of Cole.

  There will be mistakes, typos, and grammar issues.

  1

  Anissa

  My shrinks stares at me over the top of her reading glasses. “I think we need to dive deeper on this. You seem to be fixated on finding a reason for your feelings, and that’s okay. My concern, though, is that you’re focusing on something that doesn’t fit.”

  “It does fit,” I grate through clenched teeth.

  She doesn’t understand.

  I can’t blame her. Since our sessions started I’ve given half-truths and misguided information in a vain attempt to keep the complexity of my time with Cole-conniving-Torian to myself. But it doesn’t stop me from needing answers.

  “Anissa, I know this is hard, and we’re going to work through it together. I just need you to understand that what you feel for this man isn’t Stockholm syndrome—”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  She clears her throat and straightens in her chair. “Okay. Let me explain again and make things more clear. Stockholm syndrome is a condition where hostages develop a psychological alliance with their captors—”

  “Which I did. I also felt sympathy for his cause, and negative feelings toward police and authorities, which is literally the textbook definition, is it not?”

  “Somewhat. The problem is, you’re leaving out the fact that, even though you were taken against your will, you never truly feared this man.”

  “Well, maybe when I initially made that admission I was wrong. Maybe deep down I did feel threatened.”

  She quirks a brow and scribbles on her notepad. “So you believe he was going to kill you if you didn’t follow his commands?”

  I glare, hating how my insides squeeze in denial.

  Cole was never going to kill me. I know that with every breath I take. Yet it doesn’t mean I’m willing to give up on this diagnosis.

  “You also said Stockholm is when the abuser opens up and shows kindness through the trauma. He did that. He told me things nobody else knew. And the isolation, too.” I push to my feet and pace her light grey rug. “You mentioned Stockholm happens when you’re isolated with your abuser. You don’t get more isolated than an island in the middle of nowhere.”

  Now, that part I’m still not sure she believes.

  This is my fourth session and although I’ve never given her Cole’s real name, or disclosed the pinpoint details of the situation, I wouldn’t be surprised if she thinks I’m making this whole thing up.

  “True.” She scribbles another note. “However, you would’ve needed to feel like there was no escape. And from what you’ve told me, you actually declined the offer to leave. He gave you the option and you decided to stay. Isn’t that right?”

  Fuck.

  “But can’t that have been a symptom of Stockholm itself?” I ask. “If I was already affected by it, and had these uncharacteristic feelings, of course I was going to stay.”

  She leans forward in her chair, her pen poised an inch from the notepad teetering on her knee. “Why is this diagnosis so important to you? What will the label achieve?”

  I pause, my feet planting an arm’s length from the shrink’s trusty sofa.

  My pulse quickens. My fingers twitch at my sides.

  I need the label because it will excuse my feelings. It will explain my obsession and justify why I can’t get a blood-thirsty criminal out of my head. Plastering the Stockholm sticker on my chest will help me to understand why his world held a semblance of comfort and my why my life now feels hollow. It should also dissolve the guilt I feel toward my actions. My father would be so ashamed of me.

  “Anissa?” She gives a placating smile. “Why do you need this?”

  Because it will condone my stupidity. It will
absolve me of all the insane thoughts about a man unworthy of my attention.

  “It doesn’t matter.” I grab my purse from the sofa and start for the door. “We’re done here.”

  “Wait. Our session isn’t over.” She stands, placing her pad and pen on the desk behind her. “We need to work through this.”

  No, what I need is a diagnosis she won’t give.

  What I need is something to help me understand why I can hate Cole with every breath, yet still sense his tingling warmth rush through me whenever I remember our time together.

  Every memory is filtered through a haze of attraction.

  Every moment—even those where he drugged, bound, and threatened me—are all relived with a sickening gravitational pull toward admiration. Or worse, lust.

  It doesn’t make sense.

  It’s not who I am.

  “Thanks for your time.” I yank her door open and stalk toward the receptionist, holding out my bank card to pay before continuing my thunderous steps outside into the late afternoon air.

  I can’t keep doing this.

  I have to quit thinking of him. Thinking of us. Thinking there’s some stupid connection between me and a psychotic murderer when those reflections tear my ethics and principals to shreds.

  He manipulated me.

  Groomed me.

  Just like his father did with all those stolen women he turned into sex slaves.

  Cole instigated a mind game I couldn’t resist. And he won.

  End of story.

  I continue onto the footpath, thankful for the long walk home because, apart from alcohol, the casual stroll is the one thing capable of stabilizing my pulse.

  If only I could find the peace I crave.

  Insomnia would be a blessing right now, instead I pass out nightly, the dreams of Cole luminous and palpable.

  “Hey, Fox, wait up.”

  I freeze at the sound of Anthony Easton’s voice behind me, my mindlessness temporarily appeased. The fellow FBI agent has been the only stability through this entire ordeal. He’s the one who convinced me not to go back to work until I’m ready, and I haven’t.

  He’s the lighthouse through the storm. The steady shore.

  And despite having limited knowledge of what happened between me and Cole, he’s intuitive enough to make sure he bad-mouths that motherfucker constantly, making me despise my inappropriate thoughts like a mentally stable person should.

  But Easton also increases my self-loathing. Being around him, with his kindness and generosity, is a constant reminder that I crave the wrong things. He’s been my rock, yet I still fixate on poison-filled kisses from a predator.

  I turn to find him strolling toward me, his suit crisp, his jawline covered in thick stubble, and those gentle eyes filled with concern.

  “What are you still doing here?” I paste on a smile. “I told you I could walk home.”

  “I know. But after dropping you off, I had nothing better to do, so I thought I’d wait around and give you a ride.” His gaze narrows. “You finished early, though. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine. Apart from me and my shrink having a difference of opinion.” I force out a laugh. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.”

  His expression softens, the kindness transforming to pity. “Is that a good idea? You need someone to talk to. It’s been weeks since you last ran into Torian and you’re still struggling to cope.”

  No, not weeks.

  He has no clue I had an unscheduled reunion with my satanic libido builder last night. On the side of the road. With a police officer present.

  Penny, Decker’s sister, had needed help. The recently released sex slave I assisted in saving from Greece, had stolen a hitman’s car and wasn’t prepared to be targeted for the drive-by shooting that followed.

  But that deluge of information is a rabbit warren I refuse to crawl into with Easton.

  “It’s okay.” I continue along the sidewalk, determined to make my way home. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “No, wait.” He rushes after me, his strong grip latching onto my wrist. “You’re not alone in this. Let me help.”

  I stare down at the fingers gently embedded in my woolen sweater. I want to feel relief at his touch. Warmth. Affection. I wish something other than the need to compare would overwhelm me whenever he pays me attention, but that’s what it always amounts to.

  I’m constantly pitting him against Cole and he never wins.

  He’s not fierce enough. Strong enough. Possessive enough.

  Yet, I know things between us could potentially become serious if I gave it a try.

  He wants me. That much is clear. He’s alluded to a relationship beyond friendship a time or two, his eyes turning hungry more often than not after we share a few late-night drinks.

  He could be the necessary distraction to take my mind off Cole. All I need to do is be accommodating.

  “You’ve already helped a whole heap.” I clasp my hand over his and squeeze. “And I’m thankful. But I’m going to be okay. I promise.”

  He keeps scrutinizing me, his brows furrowing. “He really messed with you, didn’t he? Whatever happened between the two of you is far bigger than you’ve let on.” He takes another step, bringing us a foot apart, face-to-face. “I don’t know why you’re protecting him.”

  “I’m not.” Keeping my lips shut has nothing to do with Cole’s safety and everything to do with averting humiliation.

  And shame.

  I regret everything that happened between me and the manipulative mastermind. If I could, I’d return to the day of Cole’s uncle’s funeral and catch myself before the temptation to taunt him became too much.

  Instead of flaunting my authority, I would’ve kept to my job, helping my team arrest his father instead of becoming sidetracked by the gorgeous man with the sinister soul.

  My stomach flips, protesting the lie.

  Goddamnit.

  I can never win. It’s as if Cole’s games never stopped, only internalized. Now my thoughts wage war against my feelings. My morals battling for supremacy over my yearning.

  I’m a fucking nut job in need of sedation, I’m just too stubborn to down the bitter pill.

  “Why don’t we have dinner tonight?” I stand taller, determined to get a hold of myself. “My shout. We can watch a movie and have a few drinks…”

  My insides do that flippy, uncomfortable thing again, warning me against a bad decision. Or maybe hating the possibility of being cut off from a long-standing addiction. It’s not like Easton hasn’t come over for dinner, drinks, and a movie every second night for the last few weeks.

  This isn’t new.

  “In your apartment?” he asks. “Again? You don’t want to go out and grab a bite from a restaurant this time?”

  Like a date? A proper, kiss-you-at-the-end-of-the-night situation?

  My brain fumbles for an answer, my hand dropping from his as my internal battle intensifies. I should do this. I need to do this.

  Stockholm syndrome be damned.

  Heated memories forsaken.

  Instead, I wince, my fucking weakness claiming victory as I fail to vocalize an affirmation. “Let me think on it.” My pulse increases, the pull of want and need dragging me in two different directions.

  He’s handsome. So goddamn handsome. With his sky-blue eyes and slick blond hair.

  But he’s not what I hunger for. He’s buttered toast pitted against the extravagance of fine dining.

  Poisoned fine dining.

  “Come on.” He jerks his head toward his car and backtracks. “I’ll convince you while I give you a ride home. I can be persuasive when I want to be.”

  2

  Anissa

  Easton didn’t change my mind. He did, however, order the pizza and pick the movie.

  He was also the one who made the decision to sit side-by-side on my sofa, putting me on edge with his proximity.

  Actually, that could’ve been my fault.


  After genuine conversation and a few laughs at the dinner table, liquid courage had me plopping my ass on the three-seater with him soon following to sit beside me. I’d thought it would be nice to see what happened.

  Would he make a move?

  Would I like it?

  I should’ve kept with tradition and maintained my distance by claiming the recliner. Now his arm is spread behind my neck, his body so close I can smell his woodsy aftershave, and I can’t handle the apprehension smothering me.

  He crosses his legs, his attention remaining on the television. “You’re tense.”

  No shit.

  We’ve worked together for too long, our relationship kept strictly professional since the moment we met, that this, right here, feels like a huge leap into high school awkwardness.

  The gentle massage of his fingers against my shoulder only heightens my sensitive nerves.

  “I, umm… I’m still thinking about my shrink. I should find a new one.” I clear my throat, my heart demanding I scoot away. “You’re right about needing someone to talk to.”

  This is Easton.

  Straight-laced, by-the-book, Anthony Easton.

  If he knew half the things I’m guilty of he wouldn’t be rubbing on me like this. In fact, I’m certain he’d be disgusted. Those kind eyes would turn feral, stripping me layer upon layer of already flimsy pride.

  “Want me to ask around and get some recommendations?” He turns to me, his knee brushing my thigh. “I think one of my high-school buddies sees someone on Billow street.”

  I clear my throat again, the arduous tickle at the back of my tongue growing more adamant. “Thanks. But I’d prefer to find someone on my own. I don’t want to rush into it.”

  “Sure. That makes sense.”

  We fall silent, my attention returning to the television where actors mumble words I don’t bother listening to as the air turns into pockets of fragile glass around us.