Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
The nightmares wouldn’t leave him alone.
So Preston stood in the den, and he stared out of the windows of his home.
He watched the lightning streak across the sky, illuminating the mountains.
Rain continued to pour down in heavy streams. The forecast called for more rain until the early morning hours.
Bridget Russell’s crime scene would be a mess by morning. Finding any evidence in the muck would be nearly impossible. Any tire tracks or footprints would be long gone.
He stared at the mountains, but in his head, he saw Bridget. Her still body. As soon as I pulled up the first slat of wood and Noble shined his light on her face, I knew. I knew.
He’d been too late. She’d died, trapped in that coffin. She’d tried to claw her way out, but she’d failed.
Too late.
But when he’d gone home, when he’d tried to sleep, as soon as Preston closed his eyes, he’d been right back in those woods.
Only in the vision that liked to now torment him, the woman in the coffin wasn’t Bridget.
When he ripped away the broken slat of wood, when the rain water poured down into the coffin, Bridget hadn’t been there.
Sloane had been inside the coffin. A still, pale Sloane. Dead.
He’d woken up from the nightmare with her name on his lips.
Lightning flashed.
In that moment, he saw his own reflection in the glass of the window. I look too much like that sonofabitch. Like his father. The Last Breath Killer. Same hard jaw. Same sharp nose. Same hair.
Same killer instinct.
Sloane had been right in her assessment. Mitchell had put him in that box in the ground because he’d wanted Preston to face his own darkness. To be like him.
A killer.
In the end, Mitchell had gotten exactly what he wanted.
Be careful what you wish for.
The rain blasted down. The storm was so strong.
Some of the mountain roads would be impassable.
The big storm had been predicted for days.
Just a matter of time before it crashed down upon them.
Preston couldn’t help but wonder if the bastard hunting out there had deliberately chosen to spring his attacks before the storm.
A better way to eliminate any potential evidence that he might have accidentally left behind.
He heard the creak of the staircase. His shoulders tensed as he glanced toward the sound.
Sloane. Beautiful Sloane. Dressed in a silky, black pajama set. Black shorts. Black top. Her fingers trailed over the banister. Her steps were slow, certain.
“Knew I’d find you down here,” she said.
He’d screwed up with her during the drive home. Did the words he’d given her count as a confession? Not really. At least, not one that would stand up in a court of law. Then again, not like anyone had ever tried to pin the crime on him, anyway. Years had passed. He’d gotten away with it.
But there wasn’t a body before. Mitchell Donahue had just vanished.
No body, no crime.
He’d never told a soul what he’d done. You told Sloane. Or, at the very least, he’d almost told her.
Mitchell Donahue had been different. Mitchell had loved to tell the world about his crimes.
Part of his MO. He’d abduct his prey. Bury them.
Then, twenty-four hours after the abduction, he’d call the families of his victims. Tell those grieving individuals that their loved ones had taken their last breaths. Then he’d rattle off coordinates.
And wait for the bodies to be dug up.
“I did check the guest room first.” Sloane’s voice drifted to him. “The one next to my room. Or, should I say, the one right next to your bedroom.”
He’d given her his bedroom again.
“By the way, you need to stop giving me your room.” She’d reached the bottom of the stairs.
Her bare feet pressed against the rug near the staircase before she began advancing toward him.
“I am sure there are a gazillion rooms in this mountain mansion you have here. There is no need for you to sacrifice your own bedroom for me.”
He didn’t move as she came toward him. No makeup. Hair tumbling over her shoulders. Looking soft. Sexy. Stunning.
Not dead. Not still and pale in a grave. Not me thinking I’m too late, that I can’t be too late.
The EMT—Adam East—he’d broken at the crime scene.
And Preston had thought…Would I break if Sloane was the one in the ground? He’d just met her. He should not be feeling this deep, intense connection with her. He should not be thinking…
If she dies, she’ll take all the light with her. Then I’ll be alone in the dark again.
Such bullshit to think. He didn’t have light in his life. He had darkness and secrets and a past that would never let him go.
Or, at least, he’d had all that. But then…
He’d woken to her.
Something inside of him had felt different ever since that moment.
She stopped in front of him. Brought her sweet strawberry scent with her. Someone from the sheriff’s department had delivered Sloane’s bags to the house. Her strawberry shampoo or body lotion or whatever she used must have been in that bag.
She’d showered. He’d showered. Washed away all the mud. Out in the woods, she’d been drenched. Her white shirt had clung tightly to her. He hadn’t even realized how soaked she’d become, not until he’d seen a few men glance at her, eyes widening.
They’d nearly lost their fucking eyes.
He’d hauled a blanket from the back of the Range Rover. Wrapped her in it.
“You don’t have to give up your bedroom for me.”
I’d give up one hell of a lot more than that for you. A dangerous thought. Then again, his response to her was dangerous. When he was with her, he just wasn’t the same person.
He…wanted.
He…needed.
And he…dammit, he hoped. Maybe that was the most dangerous part of it all. The hope. The growing hope. I want more. I want to have more in this world. I’m tired of looking at everyone else, at seeing them happy. He wanted what Atlas Bennett had. A home. A family.
A wife who loved him.
“Preston?”
Right. She was talking about his bedroom.
“I want you in my bed.” Hell. Wrong words.
He should try to be less growly, too. Tone things down so he didn’t scare her.
Considering their last twenty-four hours, though, Sloane had to be plenty terrified as it was.
“My bedroom. It’s the biggest bedroom in the house.
Thought it would make you feel less…” He trailed away.
She’d just reached out and touched him. Put her hand on his chest.
“Less trapped?”
“Yeah.” He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just boxers. His dick was saluting hard in those boxers. Talk about being a jackass. She’d come down probably because she was scared, but he’d taken one look at her and his dick had been all…Want her. Need her.
He backed away from Sloane.
Her hand fell. And when her hand fell…her eyes darted down, too.
Great. Yep. That’s my giant dick shoving toward you, angel.
Her gaze had locked on his dick as he tented the boxer shorts. She bit her lower lip. Tilted her head.
He waited for her to run back up the stairs. She didn’t.
I practically confessed to murder in the back of the Range Rover. Now she can see all I want to do is to fuck her.
And yet, she stayed.
“I can’t sleep up there.” A husky confession from Sloane. “The covers feel too tight. The dark too intense. I keep turning on the lights, but it didn’t help.” A soft sigh. “I went looking for you because when I was held in your arms before, I felt safe.”
He wasn’t safety. If she was looking for that, she’d come to the wrong man.
“I went to the room next door. I knocked. You weren’t inside.
” A slight wince as she admitted, “I peeked. When I didn’t see you in there, I figured that you’d come down here because maybe you felt trapped, too.
You came down because you wanted to stare out of your big windows and feel free.
” Her gaze shifted to peer beyond him. At the night.
The storm. “What kept you up tonight? Did you feel trapped, too?”
It was nearing 2 a.m. Exhaustion should fill him. It didn’t. His body still churned with adrenaline even as the nightmare image of Sloane in that coffin played on repeat in his head.
Won’t happen. Won’t let it happen. I will find him. I will stop him.
“Preston?” She cleared her throat. Her attention had shifted back to his face. There weren’t a lot of lights on in the den. Just soft glows from a few lamps. Enough illumination that he could see her. “You are really not chatty tonight, are you?”
As a rule, he didn’t tend to be particularly chatty.
Sloane pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Bad dreams?” A pause. “Bad memories?”
“Both.” Yeah, that hadn’t counted as a chatty answer, but he didn’t exactly want to say, Angel, I dreamed you were dead.
I dug you up, the dirt clumping beneath my hands, and when I got to you, you were cold and still.
I was too late. And I knew then that the bastard had finally succeeded in breaking me because I could feel the darkness reaching out to swallow me whole.
“Want to talk to me about them?” Sloane asked softly. “The dreams?”
Fuck, no.
“Or the memories? It can help to talk to someone about them. Someone you trust.”
He rocked back on his bare heels. “Ah, saying that as a psychologist, are you? Offering me some talk therapy?”
“No, I’m not saying it as a psychologist. I’m saying it as your friend.”
Low laughter came from him. “I don’t think we are friends.”
“Careful,” she chided. “You’ll hurt my feelings.”
“We aren’t friends, Sloane.”
“We could be.” She edged forward. “We survived a traumatic experience together. Things like that bond people. We’ve both lived through pasts that were hell, but we didn’t let those nightmares break us. You and I could have a great deal in common.”
Oh? Because you’ve killed, too? Not the time to ask that question. He was trying hard not to send her running. He was also working hard not to pounce on her. Another priority. But it was hard with her standing right there, and that strawberry scent tempting him.