by Reinke, Sara
“No, you’re right,” he told her, shaking his head. “It’s not my business.”
Again, there was silence between them. Clearly he’d touched on a nerve, but wasn’t sure what else he could say or do to make amends. He’d just been getting to a point where things seemed cordial and even friendly with her, like they’d been before leaving for New Orleans. Leave it to me to fuck it all up.
“Things with me and Martin weren’t like you and your wife,” Tessa said finally. “The way you were in that picture—happy, in love.” She glanced at him. “Marriages among the Brethren don’t have anything to do with love. I wouldn’t even see Martin most of the time. And when I would, it was because he wanted sex or…”
Her voice faded. Or what? he wondered, because he could see in her face that it was something that caused her pain and anxiety.
“Never mind.” She shook her head and forced a smile. “Choosing between staying in Kentucky with him or leaving to follow Brandon was a no-brainer. Especially now.” Her hand draped lightly, briefly against her belly, and her smile softened, growing less strained.
“Speaking of which,” he said as they passed a sign for restaurants in an upcoming town called Junction, “you need to eat. There’s a pair of twenties tucked up there in the sun visor. Let’s swing through a drive-thru off the next exit and grab a couple of burgers.”
“Are you sure?” She looked uncertain, and again, he found himself touched by her concern for him.
“Yes, pischouette.” His hand was still hurting like all hell, but he did his best to smile and put her at ease. She needed food. The baby needed food. His hand—and the pain pills he’d given Brandon—could wait. “Trust me.”
Chapter Eight
Martin used to beat Tessa, but the admittance of this would have been too painful. She’d never told anyone, especially not Brandon. Her twin might have been a gentle soul, but he was also a black belt in aikido. He would have done more than just kick Martin’s ass if he’d known. Brandon would have killed him.
More than wanting to keep Martin from harm, Tessa didn’t mention the abuse because she was ashamed of it, of what her family would think of her. Even now, hundreds of miles away from Martin—free from him at last—she couldn’t bear to say the words aloud, because she still felt self-conscious, like Rene would look at her differently, think about her differently if he knew the truth.
It had started almost immediately, within days of her arrival at the Davenant house. Women among the Brethren tended to all of the daily household duties, from cooking to cleaning, childcare to laundry, and everything else in between. At the Nobles’ great house, Tessa had helped her mother teaching the elementary-aged children, offering instruction in reading and writing, as well as offering ballet classes. Tessa had received extensive private training for years in classical dance, gifts from both her father and grandmother Eleanor. She’d assumed this experience would be well put to use under the Davenants’ roof, but had been surprised and disappointed when Monica had assigned her to work in the laundry instead.
“Working with children is a privilege reserved for older women and established wives,” Monica had told her with an air of icy disdain. “Not for lesser wives little more than children themselves.”
Tessa had known next to nothing about laundry, though she’d struggled to learn. Two days after becoming Martin’s bride, she’d been awoken in the wee hours of the morning by the sharp report of her bedroom door flying open, slamming into the wall. She’d sat up in bed, frightened and bewildered, as had her cousin Alexandra from the adjacent bed. A silhouetted figure had plowed across the room, stomping noisily, and Tessa had a bleary, startled moment to realize it was Martin.
She’d thought at first, and to her dismay, that he’d come to her for sex again. He’d already come once and she’d stayed still as a board beneath him while he’d gone about his business, grunting in her ear and crushing against her. They hadn’t exchanged a word, and Martin had come and gone from the room hardly making a sound.
That night, however, his hand had clamped so hard against her arm, seizing her above the crook of her elbow, that his fingers had left bruises. “What is this?” he’d demanded, shoving something in her face. He’d flapped it furiously, a white cotton shirt. “Tell me what this is supposed to be!”
He’d dragged her out of bed and down the corridor, forcing her in staggering tow. Because Martin expected his wives to be ready to accommodate his desires on any given night, none were allowed to sleep in nightgowns. Tessa had been naked, frightened, fighting against tears as Martin had marched her downstairs to the basement laundry room.
Here, he snapped on the lights, and a flood of brilliant, dazzling fluorescents had spilled down against the rows of stark white washing machines and industrial-sized dryers.
“Do you expect me to wear this?” Martin had shouted, again shoving the shirt in her face. “I want starch in my shirts, enough to hold some shape, and creases in the middle of the sleeves, not off to one goddamn side!” He’d struck her, sending her crashing to the floor. Tessa had sprawled against the linoleum tiles and blinked dazedly at the sudden spray of lights dancing in front of her eyes.
Martin had beaten her that night, stripping his belt from the waistband of his slacks and swinging it, driving the strap over and over against her shoulders, buttocks and spine. He’d grabbed her by the hair and hauled her, stumbling and weeping, to her feet. “Wash it,” he’d ordered, pushing the shirt into her hands. “Then dry it. Then iron it again. Correctly.”
For four years, the abuse she’d suffered at Martin’s hands had been routine. At least twice each week, he’d fly into a rage and lay into her. Sometimes he’d settle for simply slapping her with his hand a time or two, but most of the time, he opted to use his belt. And Tessa hadn’t been the only recipient; her cousin Alexandra was also beaten, as were all of Martin’s wives…except for Monica. Martin had never raised his hand to his first bride, which had only made Tessa hate Monica all the more.
I’m sorry I can’t tell you the truth, Rene, she thought. Growing up, she’d always been resilient and feisty, the strong one between her and Brandon, who’d been unafraid to stand up to anyone—even the Grandfather—in her brother’s defense.
“You remind me so much of myself sometimes, I’d swear I was looking in a mirror,” Eleanor used to tell Tessa fondly.
Eleanor would have never allowed anyone to beat her, much less her own husband. And until that first night, when Martin had taken his belt and whipped her, Tessa would have expected nothing less from herself. She’d hoped that incident had been a fluke, something that would never happen again, but it hadn’t, and her humiliation and despair had only grown with each new and terrible occasion.
Tessa didn’t want Rene to know. Since the incident at the rest stop, that antagonistic tension between them had been gone, and she liked the way things were now, friendly and comfortable. She didn’t want to ruin it, the way she knew she would if she said anything. He’d look at her differently, down on her again. The way Martin used to.
They arrived in Anthony, New Mexico, shortly after six o’clock that evening, still well ahead of Lina and Brandon. They stopped at a Super 8 Motel so they could get a room in the meantime.
“My wallet’s in my back pocket,” Rene said, leaning forward in his seat and craning his uninjured arm behind him. “Hang on…”
“Do you want me to get it?” she asked, and he raised his brow, smirking wryly.
“You trying to cop a feel of my ass, pischouette?”
She laughed as he handed her the wallet. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
She paid in cash. When the clerk had asked if she wanted a double or king-sized room, she was at a loss. “What’s the difference?”
“How many beds do you need?” the clerk replied.
Rene had gotten them a suite the night before, with one bed but a separate living room. “I’m not much on sleeping,” he’d told her. “This way, I can stay up and watch TV
and you can close the door and get some shut-eye.”
So Tessa asked for one bed, and was somewhat dismayed when she unlocked the door to their room and got exactly what she’d requested. And not a single thing more.
Rene, at least, enjoyed a good laugh over it. “Ça ne fait rien,” he told her. Never mind. “I’ll sleep on the recliner, pischouette. You take the bed.”
She’d protested. After all, he was hurt, and that should have taken precedence over any misguided sense of chivalry he might have been feeling.
“I’ll make a deal with you, how about that?” Rene said with a glance at his watch. “We’ve got at least two hours before Lina and Brandon get here. How about I stretch out on the bed and nap in the meantime?”
She agreed, parking herself in the cornflower blue recliner so that he couldn’t renege on his end of the deal. He chuckled but hadn’t argued with her, and lay down on the bed while she turned on the TV.
She channel-surfed for a while, thumbing through a seemingly endless array of infomercials, evening news broadcasts, televised court shows and cartoons before turning off the television in bored exasperation. Rene had fallen asleep, but it didn’t seem to be restful, she realized. He moaned quietly, squirming slightly atop the comforter, and Tessa stood to check on him.
“Rene?” she asked softly. Clearly he was still in pain, despite his reassurances to the contrary and his attempts to act like everything was fine. His face was slightly flushed, peppered lightly with perspiration, his brows lifted slightly, his expression twisted with distress. He murmured something breathlessly but she couldn’t make out the words.
“It’s all right,” Tessa said, brushing his hair back from his face. She lay down facing him, curled up on the mattress. It was something she and Brandon used to do as children. She’d been afraid of the dark and would steal into his bedroom at night, crawling into bed with him. They’d lie facing each other, and she’d fall asleep, safe in her twin’s company, comforted by his presence.
She felt somewhat foolish but didn’t know what else to do for Rene; he was in pain, and there was nothing she could offer besides comfort that would take that away from him. He was hurting, and it was all her fault; he’d been shot because he’d tried to protect her.
“It’s all right,” she said again, whispering as she reached between them, finding his uninjured hand. She let her fingers slide between his, and his restless murmuring quieted as he fell still, relaxing.
It was nice, being close to him—more than she would have expected. I could get used to this, she thought. The warmth of his body seeped through his clothes, enveloping her and she closed her eyes as it lulled her to sleep.
Chapter Nine
Rene felt his cell phone ring, thrumming from inside his hip pocket, rousing him begrudgingly from sleep. He tried to ignore it, but the vibrations continued, pulsating against his groin, aggravating him.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, opening his eyes blearily. He blinked in puzzled surprise, the cell phone forgotten, as he found himself lying face-to-face with Tessa in bed.
What the hell…?
For a moment, his sleep-addled mind couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. It took him a moment to realize where he was, and it wasn’t until he tried to move his left hand—sending immediate, sharp pain shooting up his arm—that he remembered everything that had happened in the last twelve hours.
Well, almost everything, he thought, momentarily paralyzed by his proximity to Tessa. She rested on her side, her face close enough to feel the soft press of her breath against his face with each exhalation. Her eyes were closed, her dark lashes curled against the high arches of her cheeks. Her hand was draped against his uninjured one, her fingers between his. He could feel the warmth of her body filling the narrow margin of space between them; he could smell her, a light, floral fragrance, the hint of her perfume.
He hadn’t slept with a woman since Irene. He’d taken plenty of lovers, of course, more than he could count or keep track of, but he’d either left after fucking them, or, in the case of the prostitutes he used for feeding, they would leave him. He hadn’t shared his bed for anything but sex with anyone in almost forty years.
I’d forgotten this, he thought, gazing with fascination at Tessa’s hand, their intertwined fingers and running the pad of his thumb lightly against her knuckles. How good it feels.
He drew his hand slowly away, watching a slight crease form between her brows. She murmured in her sleep, something incoherent, and then her expression softened, relaxing once more.
She was a beautiful woman. He’d thought that all along, from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. Although she’d originally struck him as being stubborn as a mule, he was beginning to realize that this was just a front she presented, some kind of emotional shield. Judging by everything he’d learned about the Brethren, both from her and her brother Brandon, Rene didn’t blame her for putting defenses like that in place.
They sound like a bunch of sadistic control freaks, no better than a pack of dogs, he thought. Was your husband like that, too, pischouette?
Things with me and Martin weren’t like you and your wife¸ she’d told him. The way you were in that picture—happy, in love…I wouldn’t even see Martin most of the time. And when I would, it was because he wanted sex or…
Or what? he wondered again, and he drew his hand up between them, brushing the back of his fingers lightly against her cheek. What did he do to you, pischouette?
At his touch, Tessa woke with a start, her large, dark eyes flying open wide, her breath cutting short in a gasp. “Oh!”
“Il est bien,” he said quietly, with a smile. It’s all right. “Good morning, sunshine.”
She blinked at him in groggy bewilderment, then sat up, tucking her hair behind her ears. “What…what time is it?”
He glanced at his watch. “Almost eight thirty.” He rolled slightly, fishing his cell phone from his pocket to glance at his caller ID “Looks like Lina and your frère just arrived in town.”
“Oh.” Tessa nodded, scooting quickly toward the edge of the bed and standing. She seemed visibly uncomfortable at having been caught lying so near to him, and drew her arms about herself. “That’s good.”
“You’re almost rid of me, then,” he said, and she looked at him, puzzled. “You want to hitch a ride with them the rest of the way to Tahoe, no?”
“Oh.” Her eyes swept the room. “I…I don’t think that’s such a good idea right now.” She glanced at him. “Do you? I mean, with your hand the way it is. You can’t drive.”
“C’est vrai,” he said as he sat up. That’s true. He’d fed well enough that day between the young waitress in Boerne and the kid at the rest stop that his accelerated healing ability had kicked into overdrive. The heavy nap he’d just taken had helped, too. The wound to his hand still hurt like all hell, but he could sense an improvement. He moved his fingers experimentally; earlier, such effort would not only have left him breathless with pain, but would have been difficult if not impossible, given the damage to bones, muscles and tendons.
“I guess you’re right,” he said, adding with a wry hook of his brow. “You sure that’s the only reason you’ve changed your mind, pischouette?”
She blinked. “What?”
It had been nice, waking up next to her; the sort of tender moment his life had been decidedly lacking, and he had been missing. He reached out and hooked his fingertips against hers, giving a playful tug. “You sure you just don’t want to stick close to me?”
She smiled, her mouth unfurling hesitantly at first, then widening as she relaxed, her posture softening, her cheeks blooming with shy, sudden color.
Mon Dieu, you are beautiful, Tessa, he thought.
“Admit it, pischouette. I’m growing on you, no?”
“Oh, yeah. Just like a fungus.” She laughed out loud, making no effort whatsoever to pull away from his grasp.
A half hour later, Rene and Tessa’s twin brother, Brandon, stood toget
her on the landing outside of the motel room, gazing out at lights from the nearby interstate. Brandon and Lina had checked into a room on the first floor, and brought pizza to share for supper. The two men rested their elbows against the wrought iron railing and nursed a bottle of Coke apiece while Tessa and Lina stayed in the room, chatting together.
“Pizza just isn’t the same without beer,” Rene remarked, making Brandon laugh. He tipped the bottle back and swallowed a mouthful of soda. “Or at least a shot of whiskey to give this shit some flavor.”
Good old Lina. She was constantly riding his ass about how much he drank or how many pain pills he’d been popping. Never mind that after the miserable hangover he’d endured earlier that day, he didn’t plan on touching as much as a drop of liquor any time soon. He had asked Brandon for his Percodan back, but hadn’t taken any of the pills—and didn’t plan to, either. Not because he wasn’t in any pain, but because he’d decided he was sick of it—drinking or drugging himself to oblivion.
Weird shit happens when I do, he thought, remembering the press of the pistol against his temple, the sound of Irene’s voice, sleepy from the other end of the phone line, and the silken smoothness of Tessa’s thigh against his hand as he’d reached up beneath her gown. Too much weird shit.
So what really happened to your hand? Brandon asked in Rene’s mind.
Although Rene didn’t understand American Sign Language, Brandon had originally communicated with him either through the psi-speech he was using at the moment or handwritten notes. His broken hands prohibited this, however, and Rene reluctantly left his mind pretty much wide open to the younger man so they could converse, even though doing so made him uneasy. Not because he disliked Brandon, but because Brandon was an extremely powerful telepath, the likes of which Rene had never seen. He suspected Brandon was the likes of which none of the Brethren had ever seen before, either, and that was part of the reason they were so determined to hunt him down.
