by J. Kenner
I open my mouth, but it’s too dry to speak. I don’t know what I’d say anyway. He can’t be talking about Emma. He thinks I’m Emma. Doesn’t he?
His thumb presses tight against my jugular. “I could just as easily push down with this blade. Do you understand?”
I’m too afraid that a nod will slice my throat, and I can’t find my voice. I manage a strangled sound that he takes as an affirmative.
“I’m glad we understand each other. The girl, you fucking bitch. Where did you hide the girl?”
That’s when it clicks. Quincy’s thirteen-year-old. That’s who he’s looking for.
And not only do I have no clue where she is, I’m terribly afraid that I’ve just destroyed Quincy’s chance to protect her. Because in my terror at being attacked at knifepoint, I’d managed to lose the gadget.
I squeeze my right hand as if it will magically appear, but there’s only air. I whimper, terrified for me and also horribly guilty about that girl. I know what it’s like to be young and afraid. Emma had been there to protect me, just as Quincy’s trying to protect this girl. And I went and screwed it up for him.
“Where?”
I start to speak, but I can’t tell him that I don’t know, and I’m too scared to concoct a lie. All I can manage to do is gape at him and whimper an incomprehensible medley of “I, uh, I—”
“Stupid cunt,” Mr. X snarls as he takes the knife from my neck and, before I can even breathe a sigh of relief, drags it from my neck to the slit at my thigh, slicing my dress in one easy motion, then pulling it wide, so that I’m naked except for my tiny thong panties.
The tip of the knife must have grazed my skin, because I see small dots of blood gathering in a line from my cleavage all the way down to my belly button. I hadn’t felt pain in the moment, but now the wound begins to sting and tears prick my eyes. I’m terrified and lost and entirely at this bastard’s mercy. I want to scream for Quincy—for anybody—but I know that if I do, it will be the last sound I make.
Futilely, I tug on my cuffed arm as I throw my free arm over my breasts to shield myself. I try to pull up my legs so that I can curl up into a ball, but he’s sitting just above my knees as he moves the knife slowly back and forth above the band of my thong.
“Please.” My voice is shaking. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t?” He lifts the blade. “But why not? It’s a party, isn’t it? And you’re all soft and pretty.” As he talks, he’s creeping up my body until his face is over my breasts. I could thrust my hand up and punch him—I’m certain of it. I was even in a movie once where I did that very thing. In the movie I knocked out the bad guy and got away.
I’m thinking that won’t happen here.
“Move your arm, bitch.”
I shake my head and keep my arm protectively over my breasts.
“Have it your way,” he says. “You want to stay that way, then fine by me. But remember it was your choice.” His eyes meet mine, and all I see is a man who’s dead inside. “You move and you’ll regret it.”
And then, as I fight to stay absolutely still, he zips the razor sharp edge of the blade along the underside of my breast.
I whimper, more in fear than the pain, because it’s happened so fast I haven’t even registered the pain yet.
“Shut your mouth, you cunt. I barely nicked you. But next time, I’ll slice the whole titty off.”
“No. Please, no.” My eyes and throat are full of tears, my body sharp with pain and fear. “Please, please no.”
“Then talk you useless whore. Where’d you stash the little bitch?”
“She’s in … she’s in…” I don’t have to work to make my voice tremble; I’m already terrified. Especially since I don’t know what to tell him, and all I can do is buy time and hope that if he believes I know where the girl is, that he won’t kill me right this very second.
“Now.”
I yelp as he rests the knife blade against my nipple, then I scrunch my eyes closed and cry out inside my head to my sister. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
I failed her. I failed me. And I’m all out of options.
The mattress shifts, and I gasp as the knife clips the underside of my chin. “Talk. Now. Or else I skewer you.”
I’m dead, and I know it.
I never expected the end to come like this.
Except it didn’t. It hasn’t.
With a jolt, I realize that the pressure against my chin is gone, as is Mr. X’s weight on top of me.
More than that, I feel the lingering sting of the slice under my breasts, the pain ratcheting up with each breath and beat of my heart. Not something I’d usually celebrate, but surely if I were dead there’d be no pain at all.
I giggle, and a voice in my head tells me I’m in shock. The voice is probably right. This really isn’t a giggling kind of scenario. And, in fact, I swallow the next bubble of laughter when I open my eyes and see Quincy beside the bed, his arm around Mr. X’s throat in what looks to be the kind of hold that could easily snap a neck.
And you know what? I’m perfectly okay with that.
But instead of falling down dead, Mr. X thrusts his body backward so that Quincy is shoved against the dresser near the now-closed door. The impact makes Quincy loosen his grip, and Mr. X breaks free. Immediately, he lunges, leading with the knife. Even I can tell that was a mistake. Quincy knocks it free with a sideways swipe of his arm, and at the same time his leg lashes out to slam into Mr. X’s kneecap.
Mr. X lets out a wild howl, then stumbles toward the door. He yanks it open, then slams past a wide-eyed blonde in a sheer black dress over what looks like a black unitard.
“Fuck!” She bends over and pulls off a black-heeled sandal, then hurls it down the hall in the direction Mr. X disappeared. At the same time, Quincy races out the door and disappears from view, his cry of, Check her! lingering in the air.
Immediately, the blonde is in the doorway. Her eyes skim over the room and over me. She’s clearly a professional, because her only reaction is a pair of slightly widened eyes. Outside the room, I hear glass shatter. She must hear it, too, but she doesn’t react. Her attention is entirely on me, and she rushes to my side, then sits carefully beside me on the bed.
“I’m Denise,” she says, pressing her hand gently to my forehead. “I’m going to help you.”
I nod, in shock. I’m lying on top of the spread, and I’m grateful when she reaches over me and tugs the free half over my exposed body. She’s searching the drawer for the handcuff key when Quincy enters. He takes one look at me, and I watch the emotions play over his face. Fear, then fury, then something soft and tender.
Then absolutely nothing at all.
“He went through the window.”
Denise looks up at him. “What? He jumped?”
“Not exactly.”
I see that register on her face, and she nods. “Any activity from the other rooms on the floor?”
“Not so far. Party’s shut down and everyone’s snug in their rooms.”
Denise nods. “At least in that regard we seem to have caught a break.”
“Did you,” I begin, but my throat is so dry, I have to clear it. They both look at me when I begin again. “I dropped the thing. When he came in.”
The damn tears start up again, and Quincy comes to sit by my side, then gently takes my hand.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say. “Did I—I mean, is it okay? Will the girl be okay?”
His expression never changes, but nods. “You did good. We got what we came for thanks to you.”
I nod, relieved. My eyes are so heavy. Intellectually, I know it’s the shock. I need to sleep. But I don’t want to stay here. “I want to go home,” I murmur.
“I’m all for getting out of here, too,” Quincy says.
“No argument from me.” Denise crosses to the window, then grimaces. “I need to go down. See if he survived.”
She starts to lift the sash, then looks from me to Quincy, then back
to me again. “On second thought, maybe you should go.” She’s clearly speaking to Quincy—I’m hardly in a position to go anywhere—but she’s looking at me. And right away I understand that she knows at least some of our story. For all I know, she knows more of the real story of Quincy and Eliza than I do.
“I’m not leaving her.”
“Quince.” Her voice is as firm as his, and I decide in that second that I like this woman. She reminds me of Emma.
“It’s okay.”
They both turn to look at me, and I realize that my voice is so low and so raw that they probably couldn’t even make out my words. I lick my lips and try again. “Quincy can stay.”
She nods and raises the windowpane, and for the first time I realize she’s planning to leave that way. I must look confused, because she says, “Fire escape.”
“Send me a status on our red-haired friend when you hit ground level. I’ll get her out of here and signal you when we’re clear.”
“Will do.” She starts to pull the shift-style dress over her head, leaving her clad in skintight black.
“What the hell, Denny?”
She tosses it to him. “She’ll need it.”
She’s right. It’s thin and black and won’t cover anything, but technically I’ll be dressed. And at a party like this, no one will think twice if I walk down to the lobby in it.
By the time Quincy brings the dress to me, she’s gone.
He sits on the edge of the bed, then takes my free hand. His grip is firm but gentle. As soothing as his proximity. I don’t know what’s going on here tonight, not really, but in this tiny bubble of time, I’m grateful that he’s with me.
He gently pushes my hair back off my face. “How badly are you hurt?” His voice is even. No nonsense. Like a doctor. And for some reason, that soothes me even more.
As he speaks, he pulls the cuff key out of his pocket and leans over me, reaching for my right wrist. The position puts his face in front of mine, his chest brushing against the spread that now covers my bare breasts. It’s oddly intimate, the memories of him mixing with my lingering fear and the way that he is now so sweetly tending to me.
“Eliza?”
I have to rewind the conversation to remember his question. “Oh. Um, I don’t think I need stitches. He—ah, he cut my dress off. And he—” I turn my face away.
“He cut you?” He sits up quickly, his voice sharp. My wrist is free now, and I use my right hand to massage it. For a moment, I don’t even notice that his abrupt motion caused the spread to shift off me, exposing my bare hip and the side of my breast.
I start to tug it back, but he stills my hand, and as he does the side of his hand brushes my bare hip and I tremble in response to the sweet, horrible, visceral memory that washes over me, culminating in a wave of regret and longing so powerful I almost curl up into myself.
If he notices, he doesn’t react. “Let me see what he did to you.”
I shake my head and hold the spread in place.
“Eliza. I need to see. I need to know if you need stitches.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, love, you’re not.”
I close my eyes. “Don’t call me that.” I hear the break in my voice and hate myself. “Please.”
When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me, his gray eyes stormy. “I’m so damn sorry.”
“Now isn’t the time.”
He stands, then shoves his hands into his pockets. “I suppose it isn’t. But dammit, Eliza, it’s my fault this happened to you. Please. I need to be sure you’re okay.”
For a moment, he just looks at me. I want to ask him about our past. I want to ask what the hell he’s doing here. I want to ask about Emma, even though I’m pretty sure he knows nothing about her, and about the little girl. I need to tell him why I came here tonight. That Emma is missing, and that the man who attacked me had set up a meeting through a message board. I need to tell him that Mr. X asked about the little girl, and I don’t understand why.
Somehow, Quincy is tied into the same thing that Emma was investigating. Which means he can help me find her. Which means I need him.
But I don’t tell him any of that. Instead, I say, “It’s not your fault, and I don’t think I need stitches. But I definitely need some Band-Aids.”
And then, because I really do understand that he needs to see for himself, I bite my lower lip, then carefully readjust the bedspread to reveal the incision at the lower part of my breast as well as the long, thin trail of blood from my breastbone to my bellybutton.
“Eliza. Oh, Christ, baby, no.” He drops to the edge of the bed, and in that moment he looks as exhausted as I feel.
“Is it that bad?”
He shakes his head. “Yes. No. You don’t need stitches.” Slowly, his finger traces the curve of my breast, not touching the cut, but near it. His finger is warm, and I bite my lower lip, but I don’t tell him to stop. Right or wrong, I want his touch. Not intimately. Not sexually. But so help me, I want to be tended to. I want to be taken care of. I want answers and my sister and peace. I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of a nightmare, and I don’t have the slightest idea how to claw my way out again.
And right now, the only thing that’s keeping me anchored is the touch and attention of this man who once destroyed me.
7
Rage burned through him. A cold, hard fury at himself for pulling her into this, and at the red-haired man for torturing her for something that she wasn’t even part of.
He’d walked away from her in order to keep her safe and whole. And now, because of him, she’d been scared, tortured, and mutilated.
He clenched a fist at his side, fighting against the monster now rising in his chest. A beast that fed on his anger, his helplessness. That he had to battle back if he was going to be any help to her at all.
Slowly, he unfurled his hand, letting himself feel every motion, assuring himself that he was in control. That it was him in this room with her. Quincy James Radcliffe. That he was here. That he was present. And that no one—not him, not the red-haired man, not anyone—would hurt her.
“Quincy?”
He drew in a breath, then gently cupped her cheek. Her blue eyes locked on his, and he saw the trust reflected back at him. Despite every way he’d hurt her, she wasn’t running.
Maybe she should…
He pushed the thought away as foolish. As dangerous as they might be together, until he got her the hell away from The Terrace, he was keeping her close.
“I’m on the ground,” Denny said. “Subject terminated. Witness called it in, so we’ll have company soon. I’ll catch you at HQ.”
“Roger that.”
Eliza lifted a brow, and he just shrugged. He’d fill her in later. Right now, he was more concerned with her wounds. Gently, he ran his finger over the long scrape marks on her belly. Lines and dots, like Morse code.
She bit her lower lip, wincing slightly, but she didn’t flinch. “I’m so sorry,” he said, even though the words were nothing but hollow platitudes.
“It’s not that bad. At least the bleeding’s stopped. And considering I was expecting to be dead, I’m perfectly fine with the pain.” She grimaced as she pushed herself up onto her elbows, sucking in air. “Okay, maybe fine isn’t entirely accurate.”
“We’ll find you some pain killers. First, we need to get out of here.” He’d always intended to exit the building after downloading Lassiter’s files, but now it was even more of a necessity. Once the police or a witness identified the window from which Red fell, they’d surely come inside and start knocking on doors.
He studied Eliza with a frown. “Do they know your real name?”
She shook her head.
“Good.” He nodded, indicating Denny’s dress. “Do you need help putting it on?”
Her cheeks flushed, and she dropped her gaze. “I—no. I can manage it. Can you, um…”
He stood and turned away from her, facing the window. As he did, he realized that he could s
ee a partial reflection in the raised pane. A gentleman would divert his eyes. He watched. Once upon a time, he’d believed he could be a gentleman. Now, he knew better.
She stood gingerly, as if it hurt to move, which he knew it did. He thought of the shallow cuts that had once covered his chest and abdomen, along with his inner thighs. The wounds were no longer open; instead he was marked by a web of thin, white scars. The skin had long ago knitted, the pain only a brutal memory. But that didn’t mean he was healed. Far from it.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, and forced the memories back, focusing instead on the reflection of the woman who had once belonged to him.
She moved slowly, and the motion of raising the dress over her head accentuated her small waist and perfect breasts. She had an athletic frame. Long and lean and lovely. Some men might consider her breasts too small, but they’d be wrong. He’d tasted those breasts, held their weight in his hands. He recalled one time in particular when he’d dragged his teeth over her erect nipple. It was as if he’d lit a firecracker inside her. Her ankles and wrists had been bound to the bed, and she’d arched up, her body practically vibrating with pleasure as she moaned his name and begged him for more. For everything.
He’d slid his hand under her skirt, his fingers teasing their way inside her soaked panties. She’d bucked against him, fucking his hand like a wild thing, and then begged for his cock. He’d denied her, of course. Made her wait until she was so hungry for him she could barely breathe. Then he’d buried himself in her, his fingers squeezing her nipples as he watched passion and euphoria rise on her face as he took her to the limit and she exploded in his arms, her loud cries pushing him over the edge along with her.
That same memory had threatened to burst free earlier, when he’d pulled out the cuff and attached her to the bed. He’d pushed it brutally away, both because he needed to focus on the job and because he had no business remembering. Not when he could no longer have her. There was no point to self-flagellation, after all. It didn’t even faze his demons.
Now, though…
Now he realized that he was either a shamefully weak man or a fucking masochist, because even though he knew that he couldn’t ever have Eliza in his bed again, he’d still opened the floodgates to his memories, and now his cock was straining against his trousers, on high alert from the enticing, delicious, erotic images flooding his brain.
