"Alone," he whispered.
His voice touched something deep inside. A place I'd forgotten existed, one where I was safe in his arms, safe in his world. My eyes welled, looking at him. Bruised, still bloody, his face showed concern and grief for what I'd gone through.
He pulled me close and laid his forehead against mine.
"I'm so sorry," he said. "Fuck, I'm so, so sorry."
His breath swept my cheek and perfumed the air around us with cherry.
My whole body was clenched in a fist of confused anxiety.
I didn't know this man, and yet I did. I knew the curve of his cheek. My heart had once touched the most intimate parts of his. I knew he checked his toes for fungus when he showered. I knew he was worried about cancer.
And now I knew he'd come face to face with his own mortality. I knew he'd seen the devil.
Had he come out of it stronger and resigned or had he realized how weak we all are in the face of death? Did he find empathy in Lucifer's fists?
I dug into my pocket and pulled out the fake stone. I held it in the air over the both of us. Absalom had done a fine job of creating an exact duplicate. The ruby colored blood drop in the center winked when it hit the light.
Take it," I said. "It's safer with you than with me."
I thought it might be a good memento of the struggle he'd endured, of the man who could face all that and come out better for it.
He nodded and let me lay it on his chest.
"I'm going to shower," I said. "You stay here and rest."
He eyed me but said nothing. Instead, his gaze kept lighting on the stone as his brow creased a heavy line over and over again into his forehead.
CHAPTER 26
When I came out of the shower, wrapped in a large, if not ratty bath sheet, he was putting the phone back on the cradle.
"What's up?" I asked him, rubbing the hand towel through my hair. It felt glorious to be clean and even though the cheap hotel soap had a strong perfume that burned my nose, it was far better than sweat and grime.
The buoyancy of my mood was a miracle all in itself.
"Lance is coming to pick us up," he said.
My feet refused to move any further. I caught the name and didn't need to know who he was or what he was to Scottie. He'd replaced Alvin. He was the one who stun gunned me as a proxy threat by Scottie.
"What do you mean, us?" I said.
He rolled over on the bed to face me, his feet falling to the scruffy carpet. His hands rand down the length of his thighs, smoothing out the holes in his jeans.
"I didn't exactly arrive in a limo," he said and squinted at me. "And I don't have a single dollar in my pockets to pay for a cab."
I wasn't aware I'd dropped the towel to the floor until he leaned over to retrieve it and wrapped it back around me. The other part of his statement, the far worse one than the fact that a sociopath was coming to pick me up, was the fact that Scottie still assumed there was a we.
"I thought we agreed on a sabbatical," I said.
He took to his feet the way a fighter did, with a determination that challenged exhaustion.
"All that is changed," he said. "I can't leave you alone now," he said. "What kind of man do you think I am?"
"A man of your word?" I said, biting the sentence through my teeth.
My stomach knotted up.
"I'm not going anywhere with you, Scottie," I said. "I've made a life here –"
There was no sound from him of protest or insult. Just the noise the carpet made as he stormed the distance to me. He gripped my wet hair in his fist and pulled me sideways, making me cringe and hunker down as the pain shredded through the nerves in my scalp.
He dragged me the few feet to the bed and threw me hard enough that I bounced twice before landing in the centre. The well-worn and threadbare towel wrapped around my midriff came open and he gripped the corner of it, pulling it out from beneath me in one motion that burned the skin of my backside.
"I just risked my life for you," he said. "I faced off against God knows what, and you have the nerve to disobey me. You're an ungrateful bitch, Isabella."
"It's not disobedience, Scottie," I said, crawling backwards up to the headboard and trying to swing my legs over the other side of the bed while at the same time trying ineffectually to cover myself up.
He gripped the edge of the towel and snapped it at me, landing a painful bite into my inner thigh. I sucked in a hissing breath and bit down on the cry that lodged in my throat. I rubbed at the sting ferociously.
It surprised me, that flare of temper, a mercurial thing as predictable as the toss of a coin. But it shouldn't have.
His tongue darted out to the corner of his mouth as though he was tasting the temperature of my fear. For a second, I glimpsed the old Scottie, and I inched away like a worm, covering my hips with one hand and my breasts with the other.
That seemed to inflame him all the more.
A low grumble rolled in his throat.
"What in the hell is your problem, Sis?"
He shot over the bed and grappled for my wrist, yanking my hand away from my breasts and holding it out sideways. "I've seen those little apples before. I know every inch of them."
He grabbed for my other hand, yanking it away from my hips as he parted my legs with his powerful knees.
"I know that slipper too. I've worn it a good many times." He rocked his hips against mine. "Since when do you hide from me. I OWN that shit."
I swallowed down my protest, knowing exactly what it would gain me. He lowered himself over me, boxing me in and pinning me down. I lost my breath. Terror climbed the ladder of my spine.
"Please," I said. "Please don't."
"I'm not going to rape you, for fuck's sake," he ground out. "You make it sound like I'm a monster."
It was on the tip of my tongue to say he was a monster, but I bit down on the words and went as docile as I could. I hid somewhere inside, behind that new veneer of empathy, scolding myself for falling for it again. Falling for it the way I always had.
And even that didn't help.
He tightened his fingers into a vise against my wrist. Tight though it was, it wasn't as strong as I remembered, but I knew it wasn't because he was being gentle with me. He was weakened by effort and exhaustion.
That knowledge, that certainty, was the only thing that enabled me to break free and claw my way out from beneath him.
I made it to the edge of the mattress before his fists came down between my shoulder blades.
The sudden pressure knocked the air from my lungs in a painful exhalation.
"Is this what I get for my trouble?" he complained. "I let you live well. Have a few years to yourself to grow into a woman not a child – and this is what I get back? A mouthy and ungrateful bitch."
Of all the hateful things he said, the only thing I cared about was one word.
"You didn't let me," I spat out. "I ran from you, you bastard. You beat me nearly to death. You cracked my tooth. I ran out in the rain in my bare feet for Jesus' sake."
His eyes lit up as though I'd ignited some deep and dormant flame.
"Beat you near to death?" he said. "That was just a lover's spat. It's nowhere near what I'm going to do to you now."
I didn't need to hear anymore. I'd been down this road enough to know every curve and pothole. I'd sped down it at breakneck speed and slammed into the back end of another car. I knew exactly where it went. And I knew exactly how long it it would take to get there.
I scrabbled toward the edge of the bed. There was only two things running through my mind.
Get up.
Get out.
Everything else was extraneous.
Shoes, clothes, bits of hair that he tore from my scalp. All of that could be left behind.
I ran for the door. Tired as he was, I underestimated his sense of commitment. He ducked around me and laid his arms over the wall, barring my escape. I landed into him full throttle and his bear-hug lifted me from my
feet.
The next I knew, I was sailing across the air toward the bed. I hoped for a cushioned landing, but I struck pay dirt only halfway there. My ribs caught on the edge of the boxspring and I fell into a crumpled heap on the floor.
All of the oxygen fled my lungs like rats from a sinking ship. Traitorous, merciless body. I couldn't even catch enough wind to put out the fire in my chest. Dust rose from the carpet and tickled my nose as though all that happening was a bit of rough sport when my ribs lanced me with pain at every gasp for air.
He loomed over me, watching me intently. I think he knew he hurt me badly. There was even a brief look of concern on his face. I watched his jaw seesaw back and forth.
I blinked at him as though I'd had seven drinks too many, trying to force my body to connect to my mind and do something, anything, to move. If I could just shimmy the three parts of him that my vision showed me back into one man, I might be able to decide whether he was going to raise his hand again or not.
He flinched when I wiped the corner of my mouth and felt sticky fluid there.
"Drew blood that time," I said with a crooked smile. I coughed wetly. "Nice job."
His jaw clenched when he heard me speak but something in his face shifted.
"Get dressed before I lose my temper."
I laughed at that. I mean what else could I do? It was obvious he'd already lost his temper, and not that he regretted it, but he wanted me to know that it could be worse. So much worse.
I stared him down for a long moment, trying to decide exactly what I should do.
In the end, I crawled my way on hands and knees to the bathroom where I'd left my clothes on the damp tiles.
I plucked my filthy clothes from the floor of the bathroom and pulled them with trembling hands over my legs. I hitched the jeans over my hips and buttoned them. The lump in my pocket gave me pause as I tried to remember why there was something in there. Then I remembered I'd had two stones: one, the real one, and the other, the fake.
I could have kicked myself for giving him the fake one.
He came into the bathroom before I buttoned the shirt.
"I'm dog tired," he said, raking his fingers through his hair. He bent over to turn on the faucet and I watched the way he winced as he turned on the taps and adjusted the temperature.
"Don't even consider walking out the door while I'm in the shower," he said with all the conviction of a man who believed he'd be obeyed. Maybe he had right to expect it. I had stayed, after all. I'd saved him from Hell.
"You can't hide from me anymore, Isabella. You're coming home. That's it."
I clutched the sink to keep from weaving off my feet. Everything was spinning. My lungs cried out every time I moved.
He peeled off his jeans and shirt, revealing every last cut, abrasion, burn, and bruise Lucifer had inflicted on him. He wanted me to see them, I realized. He wanted me to feel guilty.
"Stuff that stone in your pocket, before we go," he said. "You were right. It has a hell of a kick. We'll get it back home, and we'll figure out how we can use that thing."
I noted his hand trembled as he stuck it beneath the stream of water. Beaten and assaulted, he still wondered how he could use such a weapon to his benefit. He still planned to use it to strike out at someone else.
I blinked at him, wondering if proximity was the same thing as possession. And if so, exactly how long before he became immortal. How long had we been lying there? Hours? A day?
Was it too long already?
"You want me to wash your back?" I said as he climbed over the rim of the tub.
Steam billowed out, misting my face.
He grunted in satisfaction. "Mind the sore spots," he said.
"All right," I said. "Just let me get the stone before I forget."
He chuckled to himself. "Always so absent-minded for someone so smart."
I chuckled with him. "Yeah. I'm not sure what you saw in me."
"A weak little kitten, that's what," he said. "And who doesn't like a kitten?"
I bit back a sob at the word. Maddox leapt to my mind, all six feet four of him. I lifted my chin, pulling in a breath as I felt my way from the bathroom.
I didn't feel like myself as I walked stiff legged straight over to the bed. I didn't look like myself when I caught a glimpse in the dresser's mirror.
My black hair was tangled at the side where he'd gripped it. Blood pooled in the corner of my mouth.
My eyes had a wild, frenzied look.
The fake stone was still nestled into the pillow. If it had been the real one, I wouldn't have been able to touch it. He'd not noticed my bare skin against it as I showed it to him.
He didn't know how the thing worked. He hadn't realized that merely touching the stone had triggered the portal.
I lifted it in front of my face and inspected it.
I weighed it in my hand.
Hefty for such a small thing.
I hadn't realized how heavy, but now that every part of my body ached, it seemed like I was hefting a thousand pounds.
Scottie called out to me from the bathroom. He wanted his back washed.
He hadn't even bothered to close the curtain, just turned back to beneath the spray of water while he hunched over as though every droplet was a needle in his skin.
"I've never been so sore," he complained. "Hurry up. I can't take much more."
The first strike of the stone hit him behind the ear, and while he slumped forward, he didn't collapse completely.
And it was too late to turn back.
I hit him again.
This time over the eye socket. His hands went up to defend against the blow, reaching for my wrists.
I fell into the tub with him, the spray of soap making me slippery.
I didn't stop fighting until the soapy water turned the bottom of the tub red and then pink.
I stared into the tub, my eyes traveling his unmoving form but I didn't see him. Not really. He was just a bit of naked flesh.
"I'm not weak anymore," I said. "And I won't ever be your victim or anyone else's ever again."
CHAPTER 27
There was something wrong with me. I felt like a wooden puppet being strung along a cardboard stage, marionette strings lifting one foot after the other. It was as though someone else decided to check my pockets for the Lilith stone, and finding it still wrapped snugly in its rag, grunted with an almost primal sense of relief.
Someone else's hand, bloody and trembling, reached for the door knob and twisted it.
Someone else waited for the clicking sensation of release as the lever withdrew like a clam inside the belly of its shell.
If the door swung open noiselessly, I couldn't have been sure if it did because its hinges were well greased or if I simply couldn't hear any more.
The floral wallpaper of the hallway and its gaudy broad-leaved border seemed to be growing in, creating a lush forest of the stinking hallway.
I thought of Pan and his nymphs and I laughed, a sound that cut out in my throat like a motor gagging on bad fuel.
I stood in the middle of the doorway, half in and half out of the hotel room for a long time, watching those flowers waltz with an invisible breeze. A small light blinked and changed color somewhere to my right.
I turned, deadpan and stunned, toward it.
My puppeteer lifted one foot after the other in the direction of the light, but the strings offered only awkward movement and I ended up shuffling along the hallway carpet. Each step dug free the smell of a thousand dirty feet and lifted it to my nose, rasped accusations in my ear.
I'd gone into shock once before. Scottie had lost his cool unexpectedly when a delivery boy, one of the University students he employed as the fourth in a networking chain to drop off a booklet of numbers that included everything from payments to gambling bids.
Three of us had been sitting in a crushed leather booth at one of his more upscale bars. One moment we were laughing, the next Scottie's phone rang and he answered it.
>
There was silence on the other end for several moments, I could hear the tension of that vacuum, and at first I wondered why Scottie didn't just hang up. But then I caught the sound of someone sniffling from the sender's end, and I realized it hadn't been silence after all, but quiet and barely controlled weeping.
Scottie said nothing. His knuckles went white and his lips paled, but he didn't say a word into his end of the phone. He just flipped it closed and laid it on the table in front of him.
The delivery boy dropped his booklet down onto the table next to Scottie's phone with a smack that was too loud in the dead quiet of the room.
It was the thing that ignited Scottie's fuse, and in the next instant, he exploded from the booth, charging in his direction. The boy took a step backward. Just one. Then Scottie was on him, and in a flurry of hands and feet, began to pummel the poor boy.
I think I saw blood fly. I know I heard bones break with the sickening sound of a dog chewing on a knuckle of pig's feet.
I'll never remember what happened immediately after that. Someone told me the boy lived, and learned to walk again after a year of rehabilitation. At the time, I just think my mind went on a lovely vacation, letting me sail down a sunlit highway with the ocean on both sides, throwing up diamonds to shine in the sun.
But I do remember with the clarity of a crystal clear lake wavering over shining stones, the moment reality returned. And it was a small thing, really. A very tiny, probably insignificant detail that put the brakes on that little vacation of hurtling down the summer highway with the wind in my hair.
A droplet of water on the outside of my glass as it condensed and slipped down the surface. The trail beaded down to the table where my hand lay, palm down. The coolness of the wet touched my finger and I realized my fingernails were digging into the tabletop.
Now, another small detail thrummed the strings of memory, but it was the bright chime of a bell and the sound of elevator doors whooshing open.
Everything snapped into focus the way a camera's diopter shifts over the crosshairs.
I caught sight of Lance exiting the silver doors.
Stone Goddess (Isabella Hush Series Book 3) Page 20
