by Shaw, Leia
Her high-pitched scream still echoed in his ears. “Maddi!” Desperate and full of trust. Like she truly believed he was this beloved Maddi and would save her.
“Maddi!”
It replayed over and over in his brain. He bashed his fist into the desk again.
He could check on her if he wanted to. He was head of Marwolaeth Du – he could do anything he wanted. But what purpose would that serve? It would only hurt him more and distract from his purpose.
What was Grant doing to her now? He liked the whip. For some reason Maddox couldn’t bear the thought of him taking the awful thing to her pretty skin.
He paced. Rubbed his head. Slammed his bloody fist into the desk again. He needed to see her. Needed it like he needed oxygen. It was a primal urge he’d never felt before.
Protect.
His gut twisted. She was hurting, there, in his home, and he couldn’t stop it. Why couldn’t he get her out of his mind?
“Fuck!”
He rolled his shoulders then paced again. When he passed by the mirror, he froze. An idea came to mind. Hurriedly, he opened the top drawer to the filing cabinet in the corner. He shuffled through the folders, looking for one name.
“Dalton,” he mumbled. “Dalton, Dalton.”
Where the fuck was the file on Dalton? They had at least something on almost every shifter rebellion leader they knew of. He’d heard of Dalton before. It was the shifter they’d almost caught that night.
“Where the fuck are you, Dalton?” When he couldn’t find it in the top drawer, he slammed it shut then searched through the second. Each passing minute drove his heartbeat faster.
He found it in the third drawer. Placing the file on the desk, he leaned over it. This was his ticket. This would ease whatever the hell was going on inside him that demanded he comfort her.
He opened the file and stared at the photograph of this shifter – this man that Felicity knew and possibly loved. New feelings rose to the surface. Envy. Why should this green-eyed pretty boy possess such a prize?
It didn’t matter. He’d use him to get what he needed and that calmed him. Photo in hand, he walked to the mirror and began the glamour process. In direct light, he’d never pass as someone so familiar to her. But in the darkness of her cell, just a few of his features was enough.
Dalton would be her light in a hopeless time, but Maddox would be the one to live it.
My heart is breaking for you. Stay strong. Don’t forget who you are. Don’t let them take you from me.
Felicity to Maddox in a letter, November 2003
A bug slowly made its way across the ceiling. Felicity had been tracking it for the last few… How long had it been? Hours? Days? The little beetle went back and forth across one spot for a while, reminding her of Maddox when he paced.
Maddox. The one who didn’t save her when she’d yelled for him. Had she really expected him to?
She sighed then winced at the stabbing pain in her ribs. She’d cry if she could, but there were no tears left. All she could do was lie on her cot and watch that beetle pace the moldy ceiling.
It was still hard to believe she’d been able to shift half of her body. But when that sadistic officer, Grant, had come to her cell and explained that he was taking over interrogation for Inkman that day, she’d lost it. Fear and anger surged through her and when he dragged her out of the cell, she started to shift. She’d gotten a few good swipes at a couple of them. Sick, but that thought warmed her chest a bit. But even then she’d known it wouldn’t last. They would beat her to death before they ever let her get away.
Hope began to dwindle. And that she hadn’t seen Maddox since then worried her. There was a moment during the chaos where their gazes met and she saw something shift inside him. She’d seen him angry, tormented, confused… But this was rage. And it wasn’t directed at her. He looked half a second away from murdering Grant. Was it enough to put her hope on? She didn’t have a choice. Hope was all she had left.
The cell door clicked open and someone stepped inside. A whimper escaped her. Please, no more, she wanted to say. She couldn’t take it so soon after the last time. Her body ached so much.
A figure moved in the darkness. Trying to scramble away wouldn’t do anything but hurt so she lay there, watching, waiting for her fate. As the man drew nearer, she could make out some details. A t-shirt with holes. Not a guard? Black spiky hair, bright green eyes, high cheekbones.
He stopped next to her cot and whispered, “Felicity. It’s me, Dalton.”
Dalton! She tried to jump up and let out of a yelp of pain. Tears streamed from her eyes – not from the pain but for joy.
He bent over and put a hand on her shoulder. “Lie still. You’re hurt.”
“Dalton,” she croaked. Emotion from the last few days spilled over and she sobbed.
Lifting her upper body, he sat precariously on the edge of the cot and settled her into his lap. Though he smelled unfamiliar – like the musky prison – she nuzzled her face against his denim-clad leg.
“Are you okay?” she said desperately through hiccups and sobs. “I’m so sorry! I’m sorry I got you into this. Are you hurt? Did they –”
“Shh.” He stroked his hand softly over her forehead.
She wasn’t alone. Despite her sadness and guilt that he was trapped here too, and probably enduring worse than her, the comfort was welcome. He wiped her tears away with his fingers.
“Why did they let you in here?” She tried to sit up. “Did you escape?”
Gently, he pushed her back down again. “No, sweet girl. They want me to convince you to talk.”
Sweet girl? That was strange. He’d never called her that. Too tired and happy to think much about it, she focused on his hand softly stroking over her hair.
“Tell them what they want to know, Felicity.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I can’t bear to think of you getting hurt anymore.”
She turned her head to face him even though she could barely make out his features. “Talk? You’re joking right? How many times have we trained for this? You know I’m tough –”
“Nobody is that tough. They’ll hurt you worse if you don’t give in.”
He wasn’t sounding like himself. Had they broken him already? She reached out to touch his face but he flinched away. “You’ve lost hope. What have they done to you?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled, nudging her head the other way. “Let’s just…sit. We can talk more later.”
His hand in her hair soothed her and she felt her breath deepen. Warmth from his body settled her worry. But something nagged at her. She’d expected Dalton to have a plan, to have spent time brainstorming a strategy and preparing for every possible turn of events. Instead, he seemed to be giving up. That wasn’t like him. What had they done to him?
As he watched her, his expression softened and became tranquil. As though touching her made things right in his world, and that planning escape wasn’t important.
She prayed to the gods they wouldn’t turn him into an Inkman. It would be too much for her to handle, the two most important people in her life broken. That might be the only thing that could truly crush her. If they did that… She would beg for them to end her.
I had to chuckle at your last letter. And I thought I was the idealistic one. Hope can’t live in a place like this. But keep demanding I stay strong, Cee. Maybe it’ll work.
Miss you.
Maddox to Felicity in a letter. December 2003
Sometimes it was necessary to send one’s conscience on vacation. And today was that day. Silently, Maddox escorted the object of his recent obsession down the cell block hallway, into the elevator then to his private chamber again, cursing his stupidity the whole time.
This was a bad idea. It wouldn’t end well. Yet he did it anyway. Why? He couldn’t help himself. Sleep had eluded him for so long. The primitive need to be with her grew so strong he couldn’t focus on anything else. Maybe if he fucked her, it would get her out of his system. He
’d be himself again. Inkman. Who never got sentimental about prisoners – the enemy.
In annoyance, he gave her a shove into the room. When she stumbled forward with a squeak of pain, he wanted to fucking stab himself. Gods, he was an ass. He didn’t have to hurt her just because he was so torn up inside.
But it was her fault. It was all her talk about toads and singing and waterfalls. Like his childhood had been a fucking Disney movie. She deserved what she got and worse. If she’d just keep her mouth shut, none of this would be happening to him
She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him warily. He finally let himself take a good look at her. Blue eyes were bruised black like a raccoon. The fat lip was gone but her cheek was still purple and the gash on her forehead had scabbed over. She moved stiffly, like she had aches in other places. He knew she’d been kicked at least once in the ribs. It made him wince just thinking about what she looked like under her clothes. Well, he was about to find out.
Without a word, he walked into the attached bathroom and started the bath water. At the sink, he grabbed a hand towel and wet it with cold water. From the bathroom, he called to her. “Come here, shifter.”
He couldn’t say her name without choking on it so he vowed not to today. She didn’t appear at first and he wondered if he’d have to drag her in. But with a groan, she rounded the corner. An ache started in his chest as he took in her pained expression.
“Sit down,” he commanded softly, motioning to the toilet seat.
She obeyed though it took her a moment to get there. He parted her legs so he could stand between them then he placed his fingers under her chin and tilted her head.
Just a day ago, he’d held her in his lap. He’d stroked her, soothed her until she’d fallen asleep. And he’d never felt such satisfaction. Though her hair had been covered in grit, it still felt like perfection between his fingers, her skin soft despite the lumps from being hit.
Hands shaking, he pressed the cloth to the scab at her temple. Curse him for not having brought her an ice pack after the ordeal. But what kind of torturer provided medical attention to his prisoner? The giant egg on her head made his heart ache like nothing he’d ever known. He wanted to fucking kill Grant.
Taming his anger with a deep breath, he dabbed at the blood surrounding the gash. She hissed in a breath and his gut twisted.
“I…” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
Could she hear him over the running bath water? She gazed up at him, her eyes soulful pools of trust and innocence. How could anyone hurt such a beautiful, sweet girl? But he had. And it was killing him.
He swallowed hard and stepped back. “Get undressed.”
Her eyes widened. “What? I… No.”
She was modest? After she claimed to have been in love with him, now she refused to get naked in front of him? Fuck that.
“You’re going in that tub whether you strip yourself or I do it for you.”
She frowned then looked down at her ragged clothes. “What’s the point of getting clean when I just have to put these dirty clothes back on?”
“The water’s warm.” He dipped his hand in to check. “It’ll help you heal.”
After a moment of contemplation she finally shrugged, then mumbled, “It’s not like I haven’t been naked in front of you before.”
He took a deep breath and held it as she lifted her shirt over her head. Fuck. The bruises caught his attention first. And that her ribs showed too much to be healthy. Ugly black and purple marks made a pattern across her torso to just under her breasts. The urge to hit, to kill tore through him again. He stamped it down with thought of his mission – why he couldn’t fail. His people were counting on him. What he stood for was right. What she and the rebels did was –
When she unsnapped her bra and slid the straps off her shoulders, his mind blanked. Creamy white skin surrounded her puckered nipples. He longed to suck one into his mouth. When she crossed her arms over her chest, he realized he was staring and shook himself out of the daze.
“Uh,” he explained brilliantly then cleared his throat. “The pants too.”
Despite the blush that spread across her cheeks, she boldly stood and shimmied her jeans down her hips. He grimaced at the crackling sound they made from being stiff with dried dirt and sweat. Underwear went next but before he could catch a glimpse at much more than her sexy ass, she jumped into the tub and sunk down in the water.
He heaved in a breath and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.
“Thank you,” she said, peering at him from just above the tub wall. “I can take it from here.”
The hell if he was leaving the room now. His cock was pulsing thinking about her naked just a few dozen feet away. He wished he could strip and climb in there with her. The Jacuzzi tub was big enough – why shouldn’t he?
No. He almost let out an agonized groan. Naked in a tub with the enemy was a stupid idea. And by the way his pants were tenting, he’d fuck her up against the tub wall in a matter of minutes. She was too hurt for that and she deserved better.
Fuck. He rubbed his hand over his head. The small splashes of water caught his attention. He shouldn’t look. Or should he? This was his bathroom. He was doing her a favor. The least she could do was let him look, maybe touch. He cursed under his breath. Gods, she was making him crazy!
“Do you have any soap?” she asked softly.
He jerked his head up. Blue eyes stared back at him – hesitant and unsure. “Of course.” Idiot. Why didn’t he think of that sooner?
After grabbing a bar of soap and a washcloth from under the sink, he moved toward the tub. Felicity brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, effectively blocking any view he might have had. He held out the soap and cloth.
She gestured to the ledge with her head. “Put it there.”
With her body leaning forward, he got a good look at her back. Blood and dirt made a thin covering on her skin. The back of her hair was matted like a bird’s nest. How could he find someone in her condition so beautiful? The urge to see her skin flawless and clean was too much. He dunked the washcloth in the water and lathered it with soap.
“Um. Maddox…”
“Shh. You can’t wash your own back, can you?” Gently he rubbed a slow circle on her shoulder then stopped. The dirt from her hair had to go first. “Lean back.”
Panic rose in her eyes. Her mouth opened and it looked like she was floundering for something to say.
He smirked. “I’ve seen it before, right?”
Her shock turned into an adorable pout.
“Isn’t that what you said? I’m Maddi, your childhood sweetheart. I’ve seen it all before so lean back and quit being so modest.”
Scowling, she mumbled something about his choice of timing to believe her. He almost laughed. And now she was stuck in an interesting predicament. To lean back, she’d have to uncross her arms from her breasts and hold herself up. He saw the struggle in her eyes.
With an eye roll, he placed his hand on the back of her head to hold her weight so she could keep her arms where they were. But to do so required trust.
She sat helplessly for a moment then finally leaned back onto his palm and he lowered her gently so her head rested just over the water. He wasn’t sure if it was a win. She trusted him enough to at least not let her drown, but not enough to let him ogle her nakedness. It was probably better he didn’t anyway. If he looked, he’d want to touch.
Using the washcloth, he poured water over her scalp and scrubbed out as much of the dirt as he could. To his surprise, the color darkened to a rich brown. Memory took him back to when he’d held her last night. She’d cried and each tear felt like a dagger to his chest. When she’d fallen asleep in his lap, he was torn between jealous anger at the shifter, Dalton, and deep sorrow at causing her so much pain. Then he’d paced his office all day, fighting the urge to disguise himself and visit her again. He’d convinced himself to wait another day. If he went too often, he risked her susp
icion and probably his father’s. A man could be hanged for less. If he used her, raped her – the thought felt vile in his mind – that would be excusable in his father’s mind. But cuddling?
Fuck. What was he doing?
He pushed her up to a sitting position and handed her the washcloth and soap.
“Thank you,” she said then began to wash herself.
He sat on the toilet seat next to the tub then distracted himself from the thought of Felicity’s bare breasts with thoughts of his job instead. They were still working on making an alliance with the two largest werewolf packs in America. If they got their allegiance, they would outnumber every supernatural faction but the fae. The Unseelie fae would always oppose them, but there was a chance with the Seelie fae. A small chance. First they needed something valuable to offer them. A bribe. His ideas involved the shifters, which brought him back to the one in his tub.
She was watching him. A wrinkle formed between her brows like she’d assessed him and found something curious. He shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like being scrutinized.
“What?” he finally snapped.
Sadness leaked into her eyes. “I was just wondering how you got the scars.”
He shrugged. “I was born with them. Like birthmarks. Then my father had them tattooed over as a boy. He said that my perseverance was a sign I was meant for great things.”
“Oh.” She didn’t look like she believed him. In fact, she looked like she had a great deal to say about that. But instead she asked, “Have you had them redone recently?”
“No. Never.”
“How are they so perfect? They don’t look fuzzy and faded like a twenty-year-old tattoo. They look brand new.”
“I…” He thought for a moment. He’d seen other guards with tattoos. The older men had blurry ones, the younger sorcerers’ were crisper. He’d gotten his so long ago, he didn’t have a single memory of it. Maybe his father had found some kind of magician, or enchanted ink had been used. Yes, that was a good theory. “We’re sorcerers. We’re not bound to human limits.”
