Chapter Twenty
“W hy the fuck is Richard sending his man after you?” Malakai snaps, pacing the length of his office. It’s late, so it’s only Killian and Malakai there while I sit on the other side of the camera, the laptop positioned so it shows the whole of Malakai’s office.
“It’s possible his system picked up on my presence,” I sigh, my body strung so damn tight it feels as if I may snap at any moment.
I refused myself an orgasm, even though it was right there with the thoughts of Sloane laying in the room next to mine.
“Wants to silence me before I find out too much.”
“He’s a fucking idiot,” Killian growls, “I’ll kill him myself.”
“This is reason enough to break the truce we had,” Malakai agrees, “And Kurtis?”
“I’ll have him by tomorrow,” Killian confirms, “Want him in the cells?” He’s referring to the basement beneath Malakai’s estate, which he converted into holding cells.
The walls have seen so much death, you can smell it when you go down there.
The floors are stained with old blood, and when it’s really quiet, it’s like you can still hear the screams of our enemies trapped within the walls.
“I want to be there,” I grumble. “Fucker tried to kill me, it’s only right I serve the final blow.”
“He’s all yours,” Malakai assures me.
But it’s not even really for me why I want to serve the death blow. It’s for the woman in the bed behind mine, it’s for the tiny baby sleeping in the crib, too. He could have hurt them. He scared them, and for that he’ll pay.
“Do you have any more on Taylor?” Malakai asks, “Confirmation he’s behind the missing women?”
“Trafficking,” I sigh, “At least that’s what it looks like, but there’s no true paper trail aside from sizable sums of money moving in and out of his accounts.”
“He’s become a problem,” Malakai pinches the bridge of his nose, “And I don’t like those in my damn city.”
I nod in agreement. We may not be the most upstanding citizens, and there may be a lot of blood on our hands, but we have lines we will not cross. The missing women, the money, the attempted murder… it all screams problems.
“He’s been a problem since he tried to blackmail Sebastian,” Killian grumbles.
Malakai grunts, “You have my approval to do what is necessary.”
Good thing I wasn’t asking for his approval, but I don’t say that out loud.
These guys have been my friends since Sebastian pulled us off the street the night Killian killed our father, my brothers as much as Killian is, but I’d disobey any orders from them if it meant keeping the people I cared about safe.
“I’m going to sleep,” I grumble, “We’ll reconvene tomorrow.”
“Take it easy, man,” Malakai says before the call cuts off and the screen goes dark. I shut the laptop a little harder than necessary and put it on the bedside table, pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers. What a headache.
Glancing at the clock, I see it’s a little before midnight, and while sleep won’t come for me for another couple of hours, I decide to call it.
Throwing my legs over the edge of the bed, I make my way to the ensuite and begin to tug on the knot at the back of the sling.
The doctor said I could remove it for a couple of hours a day as long as I don’t move it too much or do any exercise, but it’s not like I can move the fucking thing anyway.
With it now off, I lower my arm, gritting my teeth against the pain the movement causes and then slowly begin to strip the t-shirt from my body, going slow over my head so I can tug it down my injured arm without having to lift my shoulder.
Once that’s off, I turn on the shower and strip the rest of the way.
Not sure how the fuck I’m meant to shower with the giant damn bandage covering the wound in my shoulder, but I’ll make it work.
I angle myself under the water in a way that keeps it from getting wet and get myself washed the best I can with one hand, slow with my movements since my shoulder smarts with even the lightest of jerks.
I finish up, climb out, and turn off the water, steam swirling in the room, but I pause when I hear a sound. A soft cry, not Lily, I’ve become accustomed to her cries in the past few weeks, this one is a little deeper and anguished.
Wrapping the towel around my hips, I step back into the bedroom, pausing as I wait for the sound again.
It comes only a few seconds later, a soft whimper that’s loud enough to travel through the walls.
Alarm rushes down my spine, and before I even have to think about what I’m doing, I’m grabbing the gun from my bedside table and ripping the door open, taking the short distance to the door next to mine in a couple of strides.
It’s light inside since Sloane has left the lamp on, and I scan the room, my gun raised and ready, but there’s no one in here. I look at the bed, at the mess of the sheets and the body tangled up in them.
“No,” She cries, “Please, no!”
A nightmare.
She thrashes in the bed, fighting whatever invisible demon is inside her head.
“Please!” She begs, her voice cracking, “No, no!”
“Sloane,” I call her name, crossing the room to her and place the gun down.
“No! Stop! Stop, please!”
Sweat dampens her skin and her hair, her face twisted in pain.
“Please!”
Fuck.
“Sloane,” I reach for her, but she twists, letting out a chilling sound, one that rips through me harsher than the bullet did. She cries in agony, as if whatever is happening in her dream is happening in real time too.
“I don’t want to die!” She sobs, “Please, stop. I don’t want to die.”
I climb onto the bed with her, gathering her up the best I can with one arm. “Sloane, I’m here. It’s not real.”
“No!” She screams, jerking in my grip, which jolts my shoulder and sends blinding pain through me. I don’t make a sound though, I don’t stop either.
“Sloane,” I shake her lightly, “Wake up, Butterfly. I’m here.”
“Please,” She begs quietly.
“Come on, pretty girl, wake up.”
Her body trembles, tears tracking out of the corners of her eyes and rolling over her temples, disappearing into her hairline.
“P-please,” She whispers, her voice weaker, defeated. Fuck. Fuck!
“Sloane,” I bring my face close to hers, brushing her nose with the tip of mine, “Come on, Butterfly. Wake up.”
A sob wracks through her, and her hands suddenly grip my arm, nails sinking into my flesh.
“Sloane?” I bring my face away to see her eyes opened, bloodshot and watery, more tears rolling out.
“Dean,” She cries out, clinging on harder.
“You’re okay,” I assure her, letting her hold on in whatever way she needs, “You’re okay, it was just a dream.”
She pulls away a little, looking around the room, into all the corners, and at the window, her eyes moving rapidly as she looks for something that isn’t there. She’s still holding on, clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping her grounded.
If she needs me to be her anchor, I will be. I’ll be whatever she asks, do whatever is needed.
“Just a dream,” She whispers, voice rough from her crying.
“That’s right,” I confirm, letting her go when she falls back onto the pillow, a tendril of damp hair falling across her face.
Unable to stop myself, I reach for it, tucking it away from her face, and then let the pad of my thumb wipe away a tear from her cheek.
Her neon eyes latch onto mine, lips parting.
I can see her pulse hammering in her neck, her skin slick and pale.
I keep my hand cupping her cheek, giving her more of me to anchor to, to keep her with me.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, “I won’t let you go.”
She nods softly, her throat bobbing as her eyes bounce between mine, glassy and full of something I want to defeat for her. The fear, the pain — it’s palpable, and all I want to do is destroy it.
“Did I wake you?” She whispers.
“No, Butterfly,” I assure her, and then let my eyes run down her to check she’s really okay.
The sheets are tangled up in her legs, and where my pants are several sizes too big, they’ve twisted on her, which likely didn’t help with the nightmare.
I know when I have the same, restrictions don’t help in the slightest. The t-shirt is all bunched up, showing the soft swell of her abdomen, but as I run my eyes over her skin, they snag on the puckered, scarred flesh at her hip.
The skin has been slashed in several places, leaving long, harsh lines in her flesh, one of them severs the ink swirls of her tattoo, cutting a single butterfly right in half.
Anger blasts through me, my heart stopping and restarting like a jackknife.
“Who did this to you?” There is nothing human left in my voice. “ Who did this? ”
The scars aren’t old, they’re still raised, angry looking, the skin red and inflamed, and you can see where she had been stitched up. There’s no pattern to the slashes, they crisscross on her skin, like someone had tried to tear her apart.
“Someone hurt you, Butterfly,” I drag my eyes from the violence etched into her skin, “Who?”
Her eyes have gone wide, her lips parted, “Dean, it’s — I — it’s nothing.”
“ Nothing? ”
She flinches at my tone.
“An accident.” She tries, but I sense the lies, “Just an accident.”
I laugh without humor, “Truth for a truth, pretty girl.”
She frantically shakes her head, “Dean…”
My fingers trace the scarring, feeling the raised, angry flesh, and she sucks in a breath. “I’ll kill them.” I vow quietly, “I’ll kill whoever did this to you.”
Her hand lands on top of mine, flattening my palm against her hip, but it doesn’t cover the damage to her body. This is anger, this is rage in a physical form. Someone had tried to kill her.
The nightmare.
Please, I don’t want to die.
“No one,” I growl, “No one will ever hurt you again.”
Her fingers curl around my hand, tightening and then squeezing. “Thank you.”
My eyes bounce around her face, her skin burning against my palm.
“I’m okay now,” She assures me.
I feel my fingers flex against her as she lays back into the pillows, her hair fanning out around her head as she keeps her eyes on me.
“Lay down with me, Dean,” She whispers.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I’m still only in a towel, my shoulder is fucking killing me, and my blood is pumping so hard through my veins, I’m not sure how I’m meant to just lay there.
“Not much in the mood for good ideas right now,” She gives me a small smile. “Please?”
I search her face for a hint of hesitation, but right now her eyes are clear, her expression relaxed. She isn’t hiding, even if she is keeping her secrets close to her chest.
“Are you sure?” I press.
“I don’t want to be alone,” She answers. “Please.”
I reach for the sheets tangled around her legs and unhook them before I bring them up and cover us both. She turns to me, tucking her hands beneath her cheek. “Is this okay?”
I nod mutely.
“Good night, Dean.” Her eyes close, and I do the same, not expecting sleep to come for me so soon. It never does, and yet I close my eyes, and I don’t remember opening them even once until morning.