Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The shower water poured onto her head. Sloane stared down at her bare feet, watching the water swirl and slide down the drain near her toes.
Such dark water as she washed the dirt from her hair.
Her fingers scrubbed and scrubbed her scalp.
She was on her third hair washing, and Sloane still did not feel clean enough.
His shower. Preston’s house.
She hadn’t said much during the limo ride back to his place. Mostly because it was incredibly hard to begin a conversation by saying…
Hey, so…you always wondered about your biological dad, right?
Well, wonder no more. I’m a psychologist who is currently researching the adult offspring of serial killers, and, guess what?
Your dad was one of the worst of the worst. A real gem who buried his victims alive in handmade coffins.
And, yep, he buried you, too. Only you escaped.
The cops chased him, they shot him and he fell into a river, but no one could locate the body after that and so… I got curious.
Yeah, all of that was not something you really just casually dropped in a person’s lap.
Besides, they’d still been covered in dirt. Wearing scrubs. Riding an adrenaline wave that was going to crash. Staying silent had seemed like the best option.
When they’d finally reached his mansion—because the man lived in a mansion, not some typical three-bedroom house—there had been deputies waiting.
Of course, deputies would have been there.
That had been the abduction site, after all.
But the limo had driven past them. And guards had been waiting near the front door of Preston’s mansion.
The kind of big, burly guys who screamed private security.
While she’d been getting checked out at the hospital, he’d apparently been busy stepping up his bodyguard game.
A good idea, in her book. The more bodyguards, the better.
He could bring in his own army, if he wanted.
Sloane winced when her fingers skimmed over the tender lump on the back of her head.
Though, really, lump wasn’t the right word to describe the spot, not anymore.
The swelling had gone down considerably.
She didn’t actually remember hitting her head, but she figured it must have happened after the guy had punched her and she’d tumbled down to the pavement. Smack.
Her eyes closed as she ducked her head under the spray of water.
Bonus, though, the doc had said her cheekbone wasn’t broken.
Not even fractured. Sloane had a bruise, one that was darkening, but she hoped—fingers crossed—that some strong makeup would hide the situation.
The doctor had worried that she had a concussion.
Yeah, totally possible given the events that had occurred.
The doc had even talked with her about staying at the hospital for observation.
But when Preston had offered to whisk her away, she’d been more than ready to jump at the chance in order to stay close to him.
She backed away from the spray and peered down at her toes once more.
With slightly rough hands, she soaped up her body.
Third time for that, too. The water wasn’t dark when it poured from her any longer.
A good sign. Maybe she’d finally get out of the shower.
She began to hum as she washed off. Maybe she’d get out and curl up in the massive bed in Preston’s guest room, and she’d close her eyes and not immediately get transported back into a tight hole in the ground.
Or maybe not.
“Sloane.”
Her head whipped up. She stopped humming instantly. Through the foggy glass of the shower, she saw his outline. One of her hands flew out and swiped over the glass so that she could get a better view. He is here. Right in front of the shower. Far too close to her naked self.
“What are you doing?” she yelped.
Preston stood there, wearing a pair of black jogging pants and a tight, white shirt that flexed across the powerful muscles of his chest. He stared at her as Sloane stood inside the shower, stark naked.
“Turn around!” A yell from Sloane. “Turn!” Why was she always having to tell the man to do that important task?
He turned. “I…called your name. Several times.”
She wrenched off the water.
Drip, drip, drip.
With her narrowed eyes on Preston’s broad back, she thrust open the door. It made a loud screech.
“Do not dare look over your shoulder,” she warned him. Her searching hands grabbed for a white, fluffy towel. She yanked it over her body, left her hair dripping wet, then she scuttled out of the shower and launched toward the big, blue robe that had been left hanging on a hook.
The robe swallowed her when she put it on. But that was fine, at least she wasn’t naked.
“Are you covered?” he asked, voice tight. Emotionless.
“Yes. I am.”
He didn’t move.
She huffed out a sigh. “You can look at me now.” Steam drifted in the bathroom.
He didn’t look at her. “I was worried about you.”
Oh. That was nice of him. Still didn’t mean that he got to treat himself to a peepshow, but worry was good.
“I called your name. You didn’t answer. I…
I thought maybe I rushed you out of the hospital too soon, that something could have been wrong and I—” Preston broke off.
Cursed inventively. Then his shoulders straightened.
They’d already been pretty dang straight.
“I yanked open the door to the bathroom because I needed to see that you were okay.”
She shoved her hands into the deep pockets of the robe. “I’m okay.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “You won’t be.
” Very, very certain. “The minute you close your eyes, you’ll be back there.
Going forward, you’ll want to keep lights on when you sleep.
You’ll hate tight spaces. You’ll want windows open.
You’ll want to breathe fresh air. You’ll wake from nightmares and be convinced that you’re trapped again.
Covers will feel like dirt, weighing down your legs.
You will visit hell over and over again for a long time.
” He turned to face her fully. “All because you decided to save me.” His hands were loose at his sides.
“Future reference note, I’m not worth saving. ”
Oh, screw that. She rushed toward him. Her hands flew right back out of those pockets.
Since she clocked in at five-foot-seven, he towered over her.
Sloane just pushed onto her tip toes, and she poked her index finger into his chest. “I happen to think you are…” Another poke of her finger against his shirt front. “You are very much worth saving.”
“And why would you think that? You don’t know me. You know nothing at all about me.”
So untrue. She knew more about him than he probably knew about himself.
“We’d never met before I woke up and you were on top of me in that grave.”
Yes. They hadn’t met. That didn’t mean that she hadn’t been watching him.
That she hadn’t traveled to the Cashiers, North Carolina, area solely for him.
Because she had. Preston had one of his many homes in Cashiers, an enclave that served as a retreat for the wealthy.
The quiet mountain town was known for its gated homes, its sprawling mountain-view estates, and for the complete privacy that it could offer those looking to escape.
Preston often escaped in Cashiers. He’d been escaping there since he was fourteen years old.
The sheriff was a close friend of his family.
Someone who assured him of his privacy. The people in the town treated him like royalty.
Mostly because he owned much of the area.
He controlled pretty much everything there.
She was pretty sure he’d viewed Cashiers as his safe haven.
Someone had destroyed that illusion of safety.
Now she was in his home. A place that had to easily cost in the six-million-dollar range.
Way, way outside of her own restrained budget.
She was wearing the big robe. He was standing in front of her.
All tousled hair, turbulent eyes, and intense sexiness.
And this was not how she’d planned to discuss her, ah, situation with him.
“I don’t know you,” he said.
“Sloane.” She cleared her throat. “I’m Sloane. Pretty sure we’ve been over this a few times.”
“Didn’t happen to catch your last name.”
She’d given it to the staff at the hospital.
And to the sheriff and deputies who’d talked to her.
There was no reason not to give Preston her last name.
Not like it would mean anything to him. Besides, a man with his power and reach would probably just be able to pick up the phone or do a few taps on his keyboard and get someone to pull up a full background check on her.
Soon enough, he’ll learn all about my past. Just as Sloane was sure the sheriff and her deputies would learn about her past.
“We are strangers,” he rumbled. “Two strangers who met under the worst possible circumstances.”
“We should change that situation, huh?” She flashed a quick, casual smile even as she dropped her hand. No more poking him in the chest. “Armstrong. Armstrong is my last name.” A pause. “Sloane Armstrong. ” Her smile had to project warmth.
His gaze drifted over her face. Again, he did not look pleased by her smile, and maybe she should start to get offended by the way his face hardened when he looked at her grin. The man clearly was not pleased by what he saw.
His hand rose and his knuckles skimmed over her left cheek. “That jerk left a mark on you.”
Her breath rushed out. Not because he’d hurt her.
He hadn’t. Preston’s touch had just made an electric surge of energy pulse through her body.
What an unusual and, frankly, unsettling reaction.
She hadn’t anticipated having any physical reaction to him.
Sloane had certainly not expected the lust that liked to race through her veins when he was close.
What was up with that? “I think it’s the adrenaline. ”
“No, angel, it’s a bruise. He punched you. I’ll kill him for that.”