by India Kells
It was no use staying in front of her computer; she had to distract her monkey mind before it was too late. Dylan got up and stretched, walking to the audio system. When her mind scrambled, she had to let it settle a bit, and music was invariably the solution. Again, she was impressed how Owen had turned to technology, where so many people still owned CDs. Everything was neatly organized both in his computer and in a separate tablet linked to the impressive stereo. Her fingers slid across a very eclectic collection until her eyes caught on a remix of dance music that made her smile. The heavy beat was exactly what she needed. The bass rolled over her as she upped the volume and let her body follow the rhythm. Caught up by the music, her mind flowed more freely.
Owen had admitted to working at Maison Amaryllis to keep his father away from his mother, and for as long as it would be necessary. To know that he had been an escort, a gigolo, a man-whore, whatever the name, at one point in his life, intrigued more than shocked her. Maybe because she understood his reasons, the deep love for his family, and protective streak toward his brothers, but mostly his mother. Would she have told the brothers? Probably not. Would she have done it? That she didn’t know. Was selling your body different for a man or a woman? Or was the difference only a question of the social status of your clientele?
Dylan had searched for traces of Owen’s position at Maison Amaryllis, outside the brother’s server, but had found nothing. What she could find on Owen was solely related to his work as a Navy SEAL, as a trainer for recruits on occasion, as well as his implication with Admiral Feander on classified dark missions. She could have dug deeper on that subject, but had refrained, at least not before talking to Owen. Suddenly, it struck her. That was the reason why she hadn’t torn to pieces the server of Maison Amaryllis’s system. What would she find about Owen?
And Owen had been gone now for a long time. Dylan looked around the windowless room, completely at a loss on what time it was. After their interlude on the sofa, Owen had insisted on going to bed for a while, and a day had passed when she came back to the office. Another night of work. Were there even people in the club again? She debated between switching a few screens on, but she wasn’t inclined to see anyone naked … well, apart from Owen. The memory of what happened on that couch made Dylan smile and grow hotter. A useful distraction, but one she couldn’t deal with at the moment. She needed air, food, and a healthy dose of the man. That very thought made her shake her head. Putting the volume higher still, she closed the door leading to the club and opened the outside door, letting fresh air inside. Still swaying, she let the damp air of the night fill her lungs. It was nighttime, but the dark sky was slowly turning in a lighter shade of blue and pink over the horizon. Another dawn was coming. Another day.
The music continuing to play in the background, she moved her muscles, walking the small backyard and wondered if she could go for a run. She’d never been to Seattle and heard it was a nice place to visit. Sightseeing wasn’t exactly in the cards, but she knew the value of shaking the mind, of refocusing her thoughts for a while, and that alone could mean a significant breakthrough. And if she could squash the panic rising inside of her without meds, her brain could stay sharper, ready for anything.
Her eyes were lingering on the blue sky, when she caught movements coming from the small alley going to the street. Automatically, her hand went to the small of her back, her fingers closing around her baton. As she took a step forward, she froze, air leaving her lungs in a rush. Images blurred when she saw a man, his back to her in a blue raincoat, wide shoulders, a blue cap on his head. The same cap, the same blue, the same shoulders as Knudson. Impossible, the bastard was dead. Beatrice had killed him; she had told her so.
Dylan tried to shake her head, but the man in the shadow remained while the beat in the background relentlessly sang about ghosts and memories. Knudson was alive. It was the only explanation for everything that had happened. And he had found her. Again. She must have let something slip, one critical piece of information that led him here.
This has to end. She didn’t want to live in fear anymore. She had to kill the bastard.
Dylan moved silently, using the shadows of the rising sun as a cloak and his distraction to her advantage. She knew her baton would make a sound as she extended it, so she waited until the last moment. A blue light came from him. He was playing with his phone. Another advantage she would seize. A few feet from him, and every fiber of her being was trembling in fear. She forced her hand to remain steady. Don’t lose it!
At striking range, she attacked. As expected, the clicking made Knudson turn, but she had the advantage of surprise. What she didn’t expect was how fast the bastard moved to evade her. She reached him, but not at the direct angle she expected. Instead, Dylan hit his shoulder. From her memories, Knudson had some martial art experience, but she knew she could beat him. However, the man before her had trained more since their last encounter. He yelled something at her, but the buzzing in her own ears made it impossible to perceive the words. And what could he say to her that would change her mind? Inside of her, there was no forgiveness, and even less for the women he had tortured and killed before her. The anger rising pushed her panic attack away, making her blows even more accurate and deadly.
Knudson stepped back, trying to evade her attack, but she wouldn’t let him reach the street. Not alive.
As he made a move to avoid a blow to the kidneys, she kicked him on the leg … hard. The thick muscle wouldn’t allow her to break the bone, but it would slow him down. Gaining momentum, she swung and punched his ribs. The creep moaned and sidestepped.
It took her a moment to realize that the man didn’t hit back, didn’t retaliate to any of her hits. Limping, he went back into the backyard, desperately searching for some sort of weapon or shield to protect himself. She wouldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t win this time. Knudson would die by her hand, in that dark Seattle backyard, as the sun would come up for the last time on him.
Not all blows hit the target as she hoped, but slowly she chipped at his strength, until he would make a wrong move, and offer her the opening she was searching for. Sweat was pouring out of her, both from humidity, effort, and her inner battle with fear and desperation.
The opening she wished for appeared as she swung her baton, aiming for the head. Trying to evade her, Knudson stumbled, falling to his knees. His head and his side were unprotected for half a second. Maybe the only chance she would ever get to kill the man. Dylan didn’t hesitate, and aimed for the head with all the force she could muster. Her arms moved, but just as her baton reached the head, a brick wall tackled her.
As if in slow motion, she felt her body fly, bracing for a hard impact. Pissed at herself for not checking for other threats, she vowed to put that second man down, whoever he was, as soon as possible.
First surprise, the tackler didn’t fall over her on the ground; instead, his body cushioned her fall. Second surprise, he didn’t attack; instead, his arms banded around her in unbreakable shackles. Dylan twisted, trying to gain footing, but her attacker caught her legs between his. The hold was so tight, it was difficult for her to breathe. Despite her situation, adrenaline surged. She wouldn’t get caught again, she wouldn’t let that creep ever touch her again. A scream erupted raw from her throat.
“Dylan!”
Owen. It was Owen’s voice! She started to fight back, she had to warn him, she had to tell him Knudson was here. When he called her name again, Dylan realized that Owen was much closer than she initially thought. So close, as if directly behind her. Blinking, she tried to look around, her body trembling from the effort of resisting her attacker. The other piece of information finally reaching her brain was Owen’s scent. One she had come to know and who soothed her like no other.
And then, his beard was against her cheek. “Dylan, do you hear me?”
“Owen!”
The brick wall was Owen. “Owen, Knudson is here! I must stop him, let me up, quickly.” She noticed the music coming off the
open door, amplifying the beating of her heart.
His hold didn’t loosen one bit. “Dylan, you’re safe, Knudson is dead.”
“No! He’s here, I saw him, and was about to kill him and you stopped me. Why?”
“Baby, that wasn’t Knudson you were bashing on, it was my brother, Lance.”
Dylan shook her head. “No, I saw him …”
From the corner of her eyes, she saw movement, and the man with the blue raincoat and cap limped into view. The sun now illuminated the backyard, shining on the man. And when he removed his cap, Dylan went limp. It was Lance. Blond, bloody, bruised, and angry Lance. How could she even mix the two men up? Knudson had been darker, and even if he was in shape, he couldn’t compare with the SEAL’s physique.
Sensing that she was back into herself, Owen opened his arms. Too stunned and weak to stand, Dylan just stayed there, shaking her head.
“I’m so sorry, Lance … I lost it there.”
The blond SEAL crossed his arms, not at all satisfied by her apology.
“Damn it! I was just standing there! What got into you? It’s not as if you’ve never seen me before!”
Owen shook his head. “Lance, let it go.”
“No! You called me, a cryptic call to boot, telling me to come to your club to help boost protection, and Doggy here jumps on me.”
“It’s because I didn’t have a chance to talk to her about you coming here.”
Dylan rubbed her tired eyes. “Lance, normally I wouldn’t have gone berserk on you like this, but I’ve been running on fumes and stress, and to be honest, you looked like a monster from my past in your outfit.”
Lance glanced down at his clothing and checked his cap. “It’s the only thing at the airport that fitted me. I come from warmer climates, and it’s damn cold in Seattle. And who is Knudson? That’s your monster?”
Owen got to his feet, and turned to her. “Let it go, Lance.”
Dylan ignored his outstretched hand, sitting up. “I attacked Lance, he has the right to know why.”
Lance limped a step forward and crouched before her, his perfect features impassible.
“Very long, ugly story short, I was a cop assigned to catch a vicious serial murderer. I got too close, he kidnapped me, tortured me, marked me, and I wouldn’t have survived it if Beatrice hadn’t found me. Knudson wore a blue coat and cap, and had a similar build as you have, maybe smaller. And in my overloaded mind, when I saw you in that dark alley, I reacted more than I thought.”
Lance winced at her curt answer. “But didn’t you tell me that Bea killed that bastard?”
“Well, either Knudson is not so dead, or for the past week, we’ve been dealing with one hell of a copycat. It’s complicated.”
Lance gave his brother a quick look before turning his attention back to her. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. Our brother, Wes, had gone through some nasty stuff when he was taken prisoner. I understand people suffering from PTSD. Nasty.”
Dylan’s mouth lifted a little. “Wesley, he recently married Mac, our sniper extraordinaire.”
“Yeah, I’ve often worked with her. And Mac, she’s been good to him. With her help and therapy, he’s getting better. He even started training again with his Navy SEAL team.”
“Thanks for trying to cheer me up, Lance. But I have no intention of returning to the force. As for the rest, I’m getting better, but I’ll never be the same again. And don’t try to slather me up with goo, I’m pretty sure your brother had to mourn who he was. Even when he will return under Admiral Feander’s command.”
Lance’s features turned dark for an instant. “Yeah, but, however he came back to us, I don’t care. I’m just grateful I had my brother again. Whatever the scars on his body and soul.”
Dylan licked her lips, understanding the bond between the three brothers, beyond friendship. And possibly it was that anchor that Wesley used to come back from that darkness. Unfortunately, Dylan didn’t have that option. She was alone to keep nightmares at bay. Owen may be a tempting anchor to grip, but she wouldn’t allow herself to do it. Not permanently.
Owen extended his hand again, but she couldn’t bear being touched. Instead, she knelt before getting to her feet. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I need to return to work.”
Owen took a step in front of her directly, but she subtly sidestepped when he reached for her. His arm lowered and he frowned but let it go.
As much as she yearned for Owen’s touch earlier, Dylan now saw that her demons were too close to the surface, so close that she could hurt people. By letting Owen close, she may have endangered him and other people. And that was not an option.
Chapter 20
An argument. Two males arguing in hushed tones, trying to keep it down, but failing miserably.
After working a couple more hours, she had made a beeline for the bed, grateful to rest her burning eyes for a while. Dylan felt so heavy and tired when her mind emerged from sleep, she didn’t even care to know what all that ruckus was about. Owen probably arguing with Lance. She never had siblings, but she learned it was a common occurrence in a family.
Not that she missed having one. After being orphaned at an early age, she’d been transplanted into so many foster homes, she lost count. She had found normal to be self-resilient, and later in life, the void was filled with friendship. Her colleagues at the precinct, her fiancé, Beatrice. And by extension, the agents of Purgatory. When alone, she had taken care of them the best she could, even if she remained a ghost in their eyes. A ghost. An empty shell. That had been her lot since Knudson. A shell she had tried to fill out, in the worst and best possible ways, but the cracks didn’t allow anything to stay in. It was always scrambling to keep them from expanding.
Dylan rubbed her face on the pillow and immediately regretted it. She had been too tired to notice it when she fell in bed, but now, her nose was filled with the scent of Owen. The scent of his skin when she had put her nose in the crook of his neck or rubbed her cheek against his beard.
Even if she longed to drown in the memories, she pushed away from temptation. A quick look confirmed that she had slept a little more than six hours. It would have to do. On her feet, she saw her travel bag by the door. Beatrice’s planning and Owen’s doing. She made her way to the master bathroom, and even though a bath in the deep tub would have been heavenly, she removed her clothes and stepped into the shower. Her mind cleared and turned to business again. There was work to do, and one creep to stop.
In fresh clothes, and resolve in her mind, Dylan went to the kitchen. Lance was gone, and Owen was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee, focused on a laptop in front of him. Owen, the most enigmatic of the Sorenson brothers. Where Wesley had been the man of action and leader, and Lance the comic relief and creative thinker, Owen didn’t have the same type of energy. He was an observer, a strategist, speaking only when he had something to say, acting only when the timing was perfect. People could have mistaken his attitude for calm. Dylan saw a sleeping volcano. She wouldn’t be fooled by his easy demeanor when she suspected he was angry at her for pushing him away and attacking his brother. Some things she could apologize for, others couldn’t be helped.
Dylan knew he was aware of her presence, so it was for her to speak first. “I hope I wasn’t the one who pushed Lance away. I hoped to see him, tell him how sorry I am to have attacked him. Again.”
For a moment, Owen looked at her, his face giving her nothing, before he shook his head.
“Lance doesn’t hold a grudge, and when you explained yourself, he understood. No harm done. And if you really want to apologize, he just went out to run some errands. He should be back soon. Do you want coffee?”
Dylan smiled, and before he could get up, she headed toward the kitchen. “Will he stay here with us?”
Before giving his answer, Owen took a long sip, his eyes never leaving her. “No, he will sleep in the second unit beside mine. Normally, Wes and Mac stay there, but they’re busy elsewhere.�
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Dylan needed to find a solution for sleeping arrangements. Not only would it be a bad idea to sleep in the same bed, but since they fled, sleep had been scarce, protecting him from her parasomnia. Nightmares were one thing, but risking hitting him as she was in the throes of one, was completely different.
“It must be difficult for the three of you, not to see each other very often. You’re all so busy.”
“It’s hardest on our mother. We’ve been deployed separately and in different units for many years. Sometimes, we didn’t see each other for up to a year. I think it has been more than six months since I last saw my family, and more than two years since the four of us had been together before that. Last gathering was for Wes and Mac’s wedding.”
As she came back to the table with a mug of steaming black coffee, Owen sat back, crossing his arms. “Now that we have completed the small talk part of the evening, can you tell me what’s going on?”
Dylan frowned, but she knew immediately it was a bad move.
