by J. Kenner
So the night passes like a slow moving troll, heavy and gray and full of danger. And I get no joy from the sunrise that I’ve watched so often from my balcony as muted colors slowly fill the world. Today, it only means that more time has passed. More danger. More fear.
And a little bit less hope.
“Baby, you need sleep,” Damien says when I stumble into the kitchen.
“And you don’t?”
Dark shadows ring his eyes, and that gorgeous, sculpted face is haggard with worry.
He nods in acknowledgment, then hands me a cup of coffee. I meet his eyes, but have to look away quickly, afraid I might burst into tears. An arm curls around my shoulder and I look up to find Evelyn. “Come on, Texas. You can’t sleep, but maybe you can rest.”
She takes me back into the living room, and I lean against her on the couch while Damien paces the length of the conference table, his eyes on the monitors that flash as Ryan’s security team—a fresh shift—do their thing.
Charles is gone, though he promised to be back soon. Sofia is asleep in a chaise on the patio. Ollie is hunched over his laptop with Dallas behind him, pointing at something on the screen.
And though they’re all so, so busy, there’s still no sign of my daughter even though the kidnapper has his money.
I turn my head to speak, but Evelyn strokes my hair. “Shhh,” she says. “Close your eyes. Just for a little bit, Texas. Just close your eyes.”
I do, then open them again when I hear Ryan’s voice. “Nothing,” he says, entering the living area from the kitchen. He looks from Quincy to Damien to Dallas. “Fucking rain,” he says. I don’t know what he means, but I’m too tired to ask.
I’m not sure when morning surrendered to the afternoon, but I do know that when three o’clock rolls around, we’ve still heard nothing about Anne. And when the clock on the mantle chimes four, I rush to the bathroom and vomit coffee and bile.
Damien hurries in after me, brushing the hair out of my eyes, rocking me. He takes a washcloth and gently cleans my face as I cling to him, helpless and lost, my body wracked with sobs.
“He-he should have c-c-called by now.” My words come out mixed with gasps and hiccups. “He won’t w-want to hang onto her. It’s d-d-dangerous.” I close my eyes, trying to block out these horrible thoughts. But they won’t stop. They race through my mind, a horror movie on speed. “He’s h-h-hurt her. I know it. My baby. Damien, he’s hurt our baby girl.”
“No,” Damien says, forcing my chin up so that I’m looking him in the eye. “No, sweetheart, no.” But though his words are firm, I see the fear in his eyes, and it makes my blood run cold.
“Come on,” he says, helping me to my feet. Then he lifts me up and I cling to him as he carries me to our bed, then tucks me under the covers. I’d brought one of Anne’s toys in here yesterday, a floppy purple bunny, and I curl up with it now, imagining that I can smell her baby scent as I press my face against the soft, plush fur.
The bed shifts as Damien sits beside me, saying nothing as he strokes my hair, his silent ministrations urging me to finally let go and let exhaustion pull me into the welcoming dark.
I’m almost under when I hear the light tap on the door. I want to roll over and see who it is, but nothing feels right. It’s as if I’m coming out of anesthesia and I’m hyper aware of my surroundings, but can’t move or open my eyes.
“News?” Damien whispers.
“Still no word from him on Anne.” I recognize Ryan’s voice, barely audible.
“Any luck at the laundry?”
“No. Like we thought, the rain fucked us up. The tech works in liquid, so we thought it would be okay, but after a mile it was too diluted. We couldn’t track it.”
Couldn’t track it.
The words go around and around in my head, getting louder and louder.
Couldn’t track it.
Track it.
Track….
The words finally click, and I sit bolt upright. Ryan’s gone, but Damien’s still in the room, standing by the window, looking out at the ocean beyond.
“What the hell did you do?” My voice is hoarse, and he turns, his brow furrowed, as if he doesn’t comprehend my words. “You put in a tracking device? He said not to. He said he’d hurt her.”
My fear rises, anger boiling to fury. Fear morphing into terror.
“Not a tracker. A different kind of tech.”
“Tech,” I say dully. He’s speaking calmly, but the words make no sense. I heard what I heard, and Ryan talked about tracking. “What the hell does that mean?”
“That we had a way—a risk free way—to find him. A way to locate the son-of-a-bitch if he didn’t release her.”
I leap out of bed, pushed into action by the force of the horror that’s coursing through me. “That’s crazy. Damien, what the hell have you done? Risk free?” The words sound ridiculous. “Risk free? If it were risk free she’d be with us. We’d have her.”
My legs give out as the real meaning behind my words hits me. “Oh, God. Damien. Our baby. My Anne. What have you done?” I tilt my head back and look at the man I love. The man I trusted. “What the hell have you done?”
He closes his eyes, and that’s when I’m certain that he fears it, too.
“Go,” I say.
“Nikki, please.”
“Dammit, Damien. I just want to be alone. Please.” I hurl the purple bunny at him. “Please, just let me be alone.”
He studies me, as if debating the wisdom of going. But then he nods and pulls open the door. “I’m right outside if you need me.”
“I won’t.” My voice is thin. Hollow.
He leaves, and I hurry to the door, then lock it behind him. Then I sink to the floor, my back to the door as I squeeze my eyes shut. I expect tears. A flood of tears. But none come. I’m wrung dry. Empty. My insides scorched from fear and anger and betrayal.
But I need release. Need it like I need to breathe. I’m choking on the pain. Lost in a nightmare. And I don’t know the way out. I can’t see the path out.
Except I can.
I close my eyes, trying to shut out the truth that is pressing down on me, but I can’t. It’s so simple. So clean. So easy.
A simple path. A way to bring me back to myself. To take back some of the control in a world that’s spinning away. Because if I don’t reach out and grab it right now, I may spin so far out that I’ll never find my way back.
Frantic now, I scramble to the closet and yank open the door. I pull out my underwear drawer with such force it comes off the track, spilling panties all over the carpeting. And there, in a puddle of cotton and satin, is the leather case. I’d eschewed it before. Now, it’s a lifeline.
Desperately, I open the case, even as a small voice in my head tells me to stop. Tells me that I’ll regret it. But I shove the voice down, fighting my way forward, knowing what I need. What I crave.
Knowing what will bring me back.
Breathing hard, I pull the first scalpel free. I changed into yoga pants after my stint on the street, and now I shove them down, then kick them to a corner. I wasn’t wearing panties, and now I’m on the floor in only my tank top. I bend my knee, tightening the flesh at my thigh, the ridges of scar tissue now raised and white, with just some lingering pink.
Soon, there will be red.
I take the blade and press the tip to my skin. I hesitate only briefly. I need this. Goddammit, I need this if I’m going to survive what’s coming. If I’m going to survive the horrible news about Anne.
Now.
The pressure is familiar, more required to cut flesh than most people think, and there’s a satisfaction in making that first incision, a sensual pleasure that comes with the pain, that spirals through me as I draw the blade down giving me that sweet release. The control that comes with having something to cling to.
A quarter inch. A half inch.
I stop, my hand trembling. I tell myself I want more, but I can’t stop staring at the thin line of blood. It’
s white-hot and throbbing now. And I tell myself I want more. I need more.
I tell myself that the pain is an anchor. A line back to reality. A secret key that will let me cope.
That’s what I tell myself, but it’s not working.
It doesn’t help.
I gasp in air, because this isn’t what I really want. It’s not what I really need.
I need Damien, dammit.
But he’s not here.
Worse, he’s the reason I’m in a closet with a blade in my hand and a wound on my thigh.
I draw a breath and shift my position so that I’m kneeling, then I bend over, my hands resting on the carpet as I sob, my tears falling on my leg, mingling with the blood that’s trickling down my thigh.
“Nikki.” Damien’s voice is so soft I think I’m imagining it. “Nikki.” It’s louder, and I turn my head to see him standing in the closet doorway. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. You know I’d never do anything to hurt her. To risk her.”
I turn to him, my body shifting as I do. I know the moment he sees the blood. The moment he realizes.
His face goes pale. His eyes go hard. “Nikki—oh, God, Nikki. What have you done?”
I open my mouth to speak, to tell him it’s okay—that I’m okay. But the words won’t come. Then he’s at my side, pulling me to my feet. “No, baby, no.” His hands clutch my upper arms and I can smell the fear on his breath. “Not a blade,” he says. “Never a blade. You know that. Nikki, you know that.”
I nod, a little numb. I haven’t cut since Damien, though I’ve come damn close. Now, I see the fear on his face.
“You come to me, dammit.” His voice is harsh, rough with fear. With pain. “Goddammit, Nikki, when it gets bad you fucking come to me.”
He realizes he’s shaking me, and he backs off, breathing hard. “We need to bandage that leg.”
“I need you,” I whisper as he takes a step toward me. “I’m so fucking mad at you, but dammit, Damien, I need you.”
With a gasp, I pull him to me, and we both slam back against the island. I close my mouth over his in a hard, brutal kiss that draws blood. And dammit, I want more.
I fumble for the button on his jeans, and he spins me roughly around, and I say a silent thank you as he rips my tank top over my head and tosses it to the floor. “She’s okay,” he growls. “She’s going to be okay.”
I nod, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Please,” I beg as I spread my legs, as his fingers slide inside me. “Fast,” I demand. “Hard,” I plead.
He bends me over, the edge of the island hard against my ribs. And when he enters me, hard and fast, I relish the pain that accompanies each thrust. This is what I need. This is what I crave. This claiming. This heat.
Damien.
His fingers tease my clit as my breasts rub the granite top of the island. I feel his body tense, mine rising to meet him, and when he stifles a groan of release, I do as well, my body exploding in time with his, until the tremors stop and he pulls me down to the carpet and wraps me in his arms. I cling to him, then realize that he’s shaking.
He’s crying silently, and I curl against him, sharing his pain, drawing it in, stronger now, even if just a little. I don’t know if he’s crying for me or for Anne or if he just needs the release. All I know is that we’re together whereas we were apart before. I’m still angry. Hurt. Confused. But I’m better. And so, I think, is he.
His arms tighten around me as he gathers himself, then his eyes bore into mine, his hand tight on my chin as he forces me to look straight at him. “Never again,” he says, then rises to pull down the first aid kit. He takes out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and cleans the wound, then covers it with a gauze bandage. “Never again.”
“Never,” I repeat. “Never with a blade.”
He studies my face, as if trying to interpret my words. But he knows perfectly well what I mean. I will always need the pain. It’s part of who I am. And if I won’t turn to a blade, I will turn to Damien.
He nods, then pulls me to him again, holding me close.
We’re calm compared to the freneticism of a moment ago. The rawness. The need.
But that doesn’t mean all is well. We’re still in hell, both of us. But goddammit, at least we’re together.
“Nikki!” Jamie’s voice blasts through from the hall. She pounds on the door, which Damien must have locked behind him. “Nikki! Damien! She’s safe! Come quick! Anne is safe!”
26
I wake to the sun streaming in through the windows, my youngest daughter snuggled between my back and Damien’s chest, and the oldest curled up at our feet, where she so often ends up when she sleeps in our bed.
For the first time in what seems like an eternity, I feel refreshed, and I smile as I roll over, then see Damien smiling right back at me.
“She’s fine,” he says, as if answering a question, though I hadn’t said a word.
I run my hand over her tangled yellow locks and nod. “Yes,” I say. “She is.”
It turns out that she’d been away from the kidnapper’s grasp for most of yesterday. At just after eight in the morning, she’d been left at one of the city’s many drop-in childcare facilities. He’d said his name was Nicholas Starkey, and that he would need to leave her all day in order to attend a series of business meetings.
The facility has security cameras, but they’d walked up, so there was no identifying vehicle in the parking lot. He wore a ball cap, which hid most of his face. The security cameras revealed a mustache and beard, but those were likely stage makeup. The angle of the cameras provided a particularly useless view.
The facility reported that Anne seemed groggy at first—something we later confirmed as the lingering effect of the Versed. She perked up later, but called frequently for her mommy, daddy, and sister.
Eventually, closing time arrived, with no bearded man there to pick her up. That was when they checked the paperwork and called the number. Our number. Ryan answered, and we all raced to get her.
The facility will be receiving a very large donation later today.
Our pediatrician had met us at the facility and confirmed that she was absolutely fine, and there were no lingering effects from the Versed. As far as we can tell, Anne remembers nothing. Well, nothing except Nemo.
Now, she stirs in her sleep, and I reach over her for Damien. He glances down, relief so obvious he practically glows with it. But when he looks up at me, his eyes are haunted.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I shake my head. “I’m the one who cut.”
“And I’m the reason.”
I prop myself up on my elbow. “You should have told me. Whatever that tracking thing you did, you should have told me the truth.” But then I shake my head and sigh with frustration. “But maybe … oh, hell. I don’t know. He let her go. Whatever you did, it didn’t make him keep her or harm her. So I don’t know.”
“I wanted—want—to kill the son-of-a-bitch. I wanted to find him for you. To destroy him for us. For Anne. And I justified doing whatever it took to find him. It was a risk I shouldn’t have taken.” He looks down, to where my leg is hidden under the covers. “Anne may be fine, but you’re not. You cut because of me. All this time, and I’m the reason you took a blade to your skin.”
“Don’t,” I say. “I did this. Not you. You don’t blame me for my weaknesses. It really doesn’t make sense to blame yourself.”
“Oh, I think it does.”
“Damien. Don’t.”
I think he’s going to argue, but then he nods. “You’re amazing.”
I laugh without much humor. “Apparently I’m a mess.”
“An amazing mess.”
Now, I roll my eyes. “What I am, is yours. Always. No matter what.”
“And thank God for that.”
He leans over to kiss me, then gets a little fist in his face when Anne stretches. We both laugh, which wakes her up, which makes us laugh some more.
“Breakfast,
” he says, and I nod in agreement.
I expect to find the house empty, but Ryan and Quincy are still there. Dallas had to fly back to New York, and Ryan sent his staff home to their beds. Evelyn and Ollie both left word that they’d be by later, Jamie is still asleep in one of the guest rooms, and Sofia went back to her hotel. The last of which makes me happier than I want to admit.
“We need to tell Bree it’s over,” I say, but Damien’s face tightens. “What?” I press. “You don’t still think she’s involved?”
“She was released. The kidnapper knew her schedule. Let’s just say the jury’s still out.”
“I don’t believe it,” I say. “I trust her.” But do I? If I really trusted her, wouldn’t I have pressed Damien harder to let her go?
Damien, I notice, is frowning, too.
“What is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head, then tells me to get the girls dressed while he takes care of breakfast.
I do, herding them to their room and helping them into their clothes, and giving Anne so many hugs and tickles that it’s a wonder she’s not running from me.
When I come back, I find out that my husband’s been cheating on me, and I put my hands on my hips and stare him down.
He and Ryan are standing behind Quincy at one of the computers, and he lifts his hands in surrender. “I only enlisted Gregory to cook breakfast because I had a flash of brilliance.”
I cock my head. “Only a flash, Mr. Stark? You’re slipping.” But I tell the girls to go in the kitchen and Mr. G will feed them. Since Gregory spoils them rotten, I hear no complaints as they scamper that direction.
“Okay. Tell.”
“Your husband’s not exaggerating,” Quincy says, focusing intently on his computer screen even though he’s speaking to me. “The bastard’s a bloody genius. Even if he was a little slow on the uptake.”
“Weren’t we all?” Damien says. “And we may be wrong.”
“We’re not,” Ryan says, then grins at Damien. “And thanks to you, we’ll be able to prove it.”
“Prove what?” Jamie asks, walking into the room in a pair of pajamas that were obviously bought for Ryan. She rubs sleep out of her eyes as she looks at me. “What did I miss?”
