“I can’t see why you’ve allowed that to drag on so long.” He sounded thoughtful, and Sophie braced herself. “You’re a new person now, Sophie. You don’t need your old life. Do you?”
He wouldn’t stop until he’d made her say it. “No, Mark.”
“All you need is me, and I’ll take care of you. I’ll tell you what to do.” He was within five feet, and getting closer.
Her throat was dry. Her hands wanted to twist together; she kept them dangling by her sides only with an effort. If she flinched now, it would be waving a red flag in front of a bull. “Yes, Mark.”
He took her shoulders. His hands were warm and manicured, and a fresh bruise on her right bicep ached as his thumb rubbed it. “Now, there’s one other question. We know how…forgetful you are.”
Oh, God. He wasn’t going to let her go until he hurt her.
“How,” he continued, his hands tightening slowly, “am I going to be sure you don’t forget?” His fingers dug in until they rubbed against her bones, and Sophie gasped. Next would come the slap, and the yelling—and she knew she was dreaming because this had already happened, she had escaped, she knew she had escaped, and this was a nightmare but it wasn’t stopping, and Mark’s face twisted into something plum-colored and twisted with rage, the pots rattled and the sunshine pouring through the window dimmed, became a flat darkness—
—and she sat up, her mouth filling with a coppery rancid scream. Someone had her shoulders, light was filling the room, and for a moment she thought everything had been a hallucination, that Lucy was still alive and she was trapped, in the kitchen with Mark right before he knocked her to the ground and kicked her, shouting, the red explosion of pain in her belly enough to make her cry, at last.
“It’s okay,” someone said. “It’s all right. You’re safe, it’s just a dream.”
Sophie froze.
Zach’s hair was damp and mussed, and he looked about as far away as it was possible to get from Mark’s manicured blondness. He’d shaved, but he was still in the same rumpled navy-blue T-shirt and jeans. Sophie stared, struggling for breath as the panic attack descended.
“Jesus.” His hands were gentle, and she could shrug out of them if she wanted to. She didn’t dare—who knew when his fingers would bite down, when he would start to yell? “Must’ve been a doozy. What was it, sweetheart?”
God, just leave me alone. Irritation warred with the need to breathe, her lungs closing down. She managed a short sharp inhale, a long gasping exhale, her body refusing to work. The shakes spilled through her, and he did a strange thing—he pulled her forward, folding his arms around her. The covers were all rucked up, cocooning her, and the slant of light against the cheap curtains made her think of late afternoon.
But the oddest thing happened. The heat of him soaked into her muscles, made it easier to breathe. Musk swirled around her, an almost-physical weight. She could smell the concern on him, clean and male, somehow healthy.
The panic eased. She took a deep breath. He was stroking her hair, murmuring something she couldn’t quite hear because her ear was pressed against his chest and the thunder of his heartbeat drowned everything else out.
Slowly, very slowly, the shakes retreated. Now she could hear what he was saying—things like, “It’s okay” and “I’m here” and “Just let it all out.” Soothing, therapeutic things. It didn’t matter. He smelled comforting, and that was another thing—how could she tell?
Her heartbeat eased. Her muscles loosened. When the panic finally stumbled and shivered to a halt, she found she was sweating a little, the light filling the room was pearly gray winter sunlight, and the man holding her was rubbing her back, his fingertips finding sore spots and working them gently through her rumpled suit jacket.
God, I slept in my clothes. Ugh. But she was warm, and for the first time in a long, long time, she felt…
Well, she felt safe.
It was ridiculous. He’d kidnapped her, for Christ’s sake. But her brain kept running over the things on the rooftop, their eyes dripping hellfire, and the way he hadn’t even hesitated, whatever he was, to throw himself at them. To get them away from her.
Still, would she be in this mess if it wasn’t for him? He’d done something to her. The misty faces were still there, pale but swirling just below everything her eyes saw. Spirits, he called them.
A fast track to the psych ward and the ruination of everything she’d worked for since fleeing Mark was more like it.
“Better?” Zach asked, the word rumbling in his chest.
I don’t know. Still breathing, at least. “I guess so.” She had to clear her throat twice; she was dehydrated and her head hurt.
“Still seeing the majir?”
“Ma-zheer?” She blinked. He was very warm, and for a moment she wondered what it would be like to just relax there for a long time, leaning against someone. The moment passed, and she struggled away, her left palm sending a flare of pain up her arm as the scab scraped the sheets.
“The spirits. Faces, you said last night.” He let her go, but didn’t move off the bed. He should have looked awkward, half kneeling and watching her with unblinking dark eyes. But he didn’t. He looked as self-contained as a cat, and as graceful, too.
She nodded, biting her lip. This is so crazy. I’m pretty sure I’m still sane, though. He told me I was. How could he know what I saw unless it’s true?
“Good.” He slid off the bed, a short sharp movement. “Better get cleaned up. I’m not sure we should stay here much longer.”
“Where are we?” Her nylons were ruined, and there was nothing else for her to wear. Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a cattle barn.
“Hotel.” The sun gilded his hair as he crossed to the window, looked out, his shoulders stiffening a little. “I think it’s called Happy Arms. What a name.”
“Oh.” How could I sleep? I must have been exhausted. She lifted her left hand, examined her palm. The scab was red and angry-looking, and she didn’t have anything to bandage it with. “Ouch. Dammit.”
That got his attention. “What?” Three long strides had him back at the edge of the bed; he seized her wrist and turned her hand up, examined the wound. “Jesus. When did you do this?”
“S-Saturday.” When I was getting away from all of you. A sudden lump rose in her throat, and she sucked in a harsh breath as he manipulated her hand, squeezing the scab slightly.
“Must’ve bled. Probably how they tracked you, they’re like sharks.”
A bolt of pain went up her arm. She winced, and his eyes came up. He studied her face for a long moment, and she was suddenly sure there was something sticking in her eyes, or sleep-drool on her chin.
“You really don’t have a clue about any of this, do you?” His fingers loosened.
She snatched her hand back. Sarcasm was probably the best response. “Is it that obvious?”
A shadow of irritation crossed his face, and he took a single step back. “Look, I’ve handled you badly. I’m sorry. I snatched you off the street because you were in danger and because you smelled good. It’s not the best set of reasons in the world, but it saved your life. You think you could work with me here?”
“Because I smelled good?” What the hell?
“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth lifted a little. “You smell even better now.”
“I haven’t even had a shower.” The man was a lunatic, she decided. Her back ached, but overall she felt pretty good. Getting enough sleep was probably the answer to all the world’s problems.