UNTAMED

37. Rosie

The hotel room door rattles as fists bang on it loudly. His arm is still wrapped around my waist as we both jerk awake from a peaceful sleep.

“Open up! Police!”

My heart thunders as Holden jolts upright in bed. He turns to me, his face illuminated by the dim light of the early morning pouring through a slit in the curtains. His fingers reach for mine, grasping them tightly, communicating reassurance with a tiny squeeze. His dark eyes are wide, searching mine.

His expression morphs from confused panic into calm acceptance as he realizes that I’m not as surprised by the intrusion as he is.

He slowly pulls his arm back, my fingers instantly chilled by his lack of body heat. Tears begin forming in my eyes.

I made a mistake. I made a mistake.

“You have one minute to open up, arms behind your head!” The door rattles again, echoing the rapid pumping of blood in my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ll tell them you didn’t take me. I’ll tell them you saved me.” I lean toward him.

He lifts his chin slightly, his jaw firmly set in a place of defiance, the expression of a hardened man accepting his fate. He slides from the bed, still in his gym shorts as he lies face-first on the floor, hands behind his neck.

I choke back a sob, wishing I could lift his head up to press a kiss to his lips.

“Open it,” he tells me, his voice calm and cool.

I want to tell him why. I want to explain it to him. My family was worried sick, my aunt and my mother afraid for my life. They had no idea that I was completely safe, that I was cared for. I had to reach out to let them know my whereabouts. I told them where we were, reassuring my aunt that we would be home soon and see my mother. She wanted my location for her own peace of mind, but I never should’ve given it to her.

I stumble out of bed toward the door, tears already threatening to spill from my eyes.

“I’m coming!” I call out, sliding the lock and twisting open the door knob.

I lift my hands up, level with my face, as police officers and SWAT team members swarm the room. One of them stops to check on me as the others ascend on Holden, roughly cuffing him and lifting him up to his knees. He doesn’t look at me.

They sweep the room quickly, not recovering anything. I know he had a handgun at some point, but I don’t know where he stored it.

“Are there any weapons in his possession, Miss Dixon?” one of the police officers asks me. He has a thick mustache and kind blue eyes. His uniform name tag reads Hutton.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

He nods. “Your father is on the phone. He’d like to speak with you. You’re safe now.”

As strange as it is, I feel less safe now than I did when Holden said it. They lead him down the hall, and a few of the other guests poke their heads out of their room to gawk at the scene.

“He has clothes over there. Can’t he get dressed first?” I ask.

They ignore my request. I’m allowed a pair of jeans to slide on in the bathroom. They turn away as I reach for a bra to put on under the T-shirt I’m wearing.

“Someone will pack up your things and bring them into the station.” Officer Hutton gently guides me by my elbow down to the hotel lobby and into the parking lot.

Spectators are gathered around, clearly enjoying the early-morning entertainment. My palms sweat as I search for Holden, but they must have already driven him off.

“He didn’t do anything. He saved me. I want to give my statement,” I tell Officer Hutton, tears spilling down my cheeks. I wipe them away with my hands.

He turns to me, a pinch of concern in his thick brows. “You’ll be able to do that at the police station. You are safe now, Miss Dixon. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“He didn’t hurt me! He found me being kept in this cabin on his land by a man who used to work for them. He knows?—”

He opens the door to the squad car, lights flashing, before turning to me and laying a hand on my forearm. “Ma’am, you will give your official statement at the station. You can have a phone to call whoever you need—a lawyer, your parents. They’ve been extremely worried about you. We will have plenty of time to go over your story.”

I slowly blow out an exhale, trying to calm my breathing and heart rate before bobbing my head. He helps me into the car, then climbs into the driver’s seat.

My aunt’swarm embrace is followed by sniffling in my ear. “Oh, my dear. You’re here now; you’re safe. You’re safe now.”

I hug her back tightly. I understand why she did it, why she thought it was the right decision. The stale air of my father’s living room makes it difficult for me to breathe. The curtains are drawn, not a speck of dust in sight.

“You’re going to be okay.” Her eyes are red-rimmed as she pulls back to inspect me.

“Where’s my mother?”

“She’s asleep upstairs. The doctor has prescribed some heavy sleep aids. She … she’s had awful nightmares and traumatic flashbacks.”

My inhales grow more shallow, the racing of my heart picking up speed. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to her.” My voice is a hoarse whisper as I brush away the tear on my cheek.

Aunt June shakes her head, leading me toward the kitchen. “It’s not your fault, dear, of course. That awful man will pay for his crimes against your family for the last time. You will never suffer at his hands again.”

I shake my head, desperate for her to understand. “Holden didn’t do this. He rescued me. He—” It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her about his shooting Jed right between the eyes at the cabin. “He’s being framed. Someone set him up.”

I have to speak to him.

Will he speak to me after what I did?

June’s delicate features crease with concern. “Darling, I do believe you might be suffering from a case of Stockholm syndrome. Sometimes, victims can harbor feelings of … sympathy for their captors. It’s a coping mechanism to help you survive the trauma.”

I shake my head more vigorously. “No! I’m telling you … he didn’t do this! The Redfords care about me. I want to speak to Dolly. I need to see her.”

My aunt tilts her head to the side as she grabs an open bottle of white wine and pours two generous glasses, handing me one. “I don’t see why you can’t see your friend, dear. In the safety of your father’s home, of course. Who knows what that girl has suffered from as well?”

She suffered from my uncle attempting to rape her—that’s what.

The way none of them see what’s happening is driving me out of my mind.

“Did he … did he do anything … to hurt you?” Her features soften as her hand closes over mine.

I know what she’s asking. The answer, of course, isn’t that simple. We had sex, very consensual, mind-blowing sex. I know I can’t tell her that.

I shake my head. “Holden saved my life. Men in masks had come to my apartment and kidnapped me. They took me to an old cabin on Redford Ranch and held me, without food, for almost six days. All I got was one sandwich.”

I pour out all the details for her the same way I did at the police station in Portland, leaving out the gritty parts about sex and murder. The last part of the story she knows because they found me when I called her from Holden’s pay-by-minute phone while he was in the restaurant, getting our sushi. While he was sound asleep early this morning, I texted my aunt our location. I didn’t know they’d send a SWAT team. I thought I’d have a chance to explain what happened to the police and he’d be released when I told them he was innocent.

Aunt June nods along, listening intently and sipping her wine. She seems concerned for me, shocked by the story of me being thrown around in the cabin and starved but very confused about why when Holden found me, he took me to New Mexico with his brother instead of telling the sheriff and my father immediately.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that he carted you off to another state when I was at their house, looking for you? Are you certain you weren’t drugged and harmed in your sleep?” She says the words gently, but they feel like a blow to my stomach.

I take a long gulp of wine, the smooth liquid burning down my throat. She rubs my arms reassuringly, attempting to console me. My father enters the kitchen then, immediately coming over to me and pulling me into a stiff hug.

“That bastard will never see the light of day, you hear me? He’s gone for good. You’re safe now.”

You’re safe now. You’re safe here. You’re safe with us.

Why does it feel like a lie?

I tuck my face into his chest, my body trembling with all the fear and stress of the last ten days from hell.

Holden didn’t do this! He’s innocent!

He was right. He told me this would happen …

I want to scream at them both, to smash the wine bottle on the floor until they fucking hear me. All they can see right now is a traumatized woman who doesn’t know what she’s saying. My stomach roils with an aching sickness at what I’ve done to him, to the man I love.

Stockholm syndrome, Aunt June said.

They think I’m suffering from some kind of trauma bond.

“You and your mother won’t have to suffer like this ever again, Rosie. You and she will heal, and we’ll be a family again. The Redfords will pay for this, all of them.”

The skin on my neck and shoulders heats with a rash. I pull back from him, taking a step away. His eyes are creased with concern, but there are no tears. There’s only anger and a hint of … satisfaction. It’s the same expression he has when he wins a hand at poker.

“The Redford family had nothing to do with this,” I choke out. “They are innocent, all of them.”

My father covers his mouth with a wrinkled hand, shaking his head. “You need to see a doctor, a therapist. You’re in shock. You’ve been traumatized, and you’re not thinking clearly.”

“Stockholm syndrome,” my aunt whispers.

I howl, my scream echoing through the big, empty house. “FUCK! I am not suffering from Stockholm syndrome! I love him! I am in love with him. He saved my fucking life!”

My aunt gasps, nearly spilling her wine as her hand shoots out to clap against her chest. My father’s face morphs into a reddened expression of rage. He rises to his full height, leaning toward me and jabbing his finger in my face.

“If he didn’t do this, then who did? Who hates us enough to hold your mother for weeks? To starve you nearly to death, feeding you one measly sandwich? That man blames me for having to go to prison even though he murdered your uncle in cold blood, spinning some story about Cain assaulting his sister and pointing a gun at him. Your judgment has been clouded by all the time you’ve spent over there and your ridiculous infatuation with all the Redford boys since you were a child.”

He straightens himself, adjusting the front of his sports coat as he looks down on me with disdain. My bottom lip begins trembling as the fear of what he might do to Holden seeps into my bones.

Would he really send him back to prison for this … something he is completely innocent for? Is my father that cruel?

My aunt steps toward me, shifting her body language to face my father as she wraps an arm around my waist. “How did you know she had one sandwich, Clay?”

A cold stream of ice shoots through my spine, straightening it. I stare my father down, searching his face for the truth, for an ounce of vulnerability, sorrow, anything to reveal the truth, to reveal that he had nothing to do with this.

But what I see instead is a trace of shame. His gaze shifts from my face to hers, a flash of fear crossing his features before he replaces it with a familiar, practiced look of stubborn pride. “I’m only assuming, with their cruelty, that she wasn’t properly fed. At any rate, I need to call Ethan and arrange for you to begin seeing a psychiatrist.” Ethan is my father’s personal assistant. “A doctor can prescribe you some medicine that will help with this ridiculous notion that you’re somehow in love with your captor.”

Without another glance in my direction or space for discussion, he turns around and exits the room.