"There was no need for you to know before."
A small stirring in her mind told Jackson Elle Drake was not completely gone. She'd always had one hell of a temper to go with her bright red hair, and he felt a small spurt, like a weak firecracker going off. "There was every need. You know what I thought."
"I know what you said you thought. You blamed me for your running off."
Her lips tightened and she ducked deeper into the blanket, averting her face, inhaling the wind. The breeze ruffled her tangled hair. She pushed at it. "You didn't want me enough to take me the way I was, Jackson."
He felt the punch of her words in his gut. "Don't fucking tell me I didn't want you enough, Elle. Don't ever say that to me. I may not be Jonas, all smooth and saying whatever a woman wants to hear, but I sure as hell wanted you with every cell in my body and you knew it. You wanted me to change. You wanted me to be a yes man."
She swallowed hard. "I'm not doing this with you. It doesn't matter anymore. We had our chance and we lost it."
"And don't fucking say that to me either."
"Maybe I just shouldn't say anything."
The scenery blurred as she stared out over the ocean. Waves pounded against great rocks, throwing geysers of water into the air and dousing the rocks with white foam. There was a semblance of peace in the familiarity of the coastline, wild and untamed, the ocean unpredictable, yet always constant. Like her family.
Jackson cleared his throat. "I don't know how to do this right, Elle. You're exhausted and hurt and--"
"Damaged. Just say it. We both know it. I need honesty from you, Jackson. I'm counting on your honesty to tell me when I'm screwing up. Because I feel so . . ." She trailed off. She rubbed her chin on the blanket. "Angry. Wanting to hurt someone. I hate myself for this but better you than them."
"Don't you think I know that?" He pulled the truck into his drive and took them up to his home. "I knew what I was asking when I begged you to stay alive, Elle. I've been there, I know better than anyone what you're feeling right now. I'm well aware you'll do anything to protect your sisters."
"Including putting your life in danger?" There was a note of challenge in her voice.
"I shared your mind when he shoved a gun down someone's throat."
Elle squeezed her eyes closed tightly, but she couldn't stop the vision of a complete stranger towering over her, shoving his penis into her mouth, or the sight of Stavros slamming his gun into the man's mouth and pulling the trigger. Her throat closed, as if a hand squeezed like a vise around it, taking her breath until she fought, thrashing to get air.
Jackson slammed on the brakes and reached for her, ripping her seat belt free so that he could spin her around, catching her by the shoulders. Her hands were at her neck, trying to pry unseen fingers from her throat. Behind them, in the back of the truck, Bomber was barking frantically.
"Breathe. Take a breath," Jackson demanded, his voice calm, although his heart was stuttering. Her eyes were glazed, far away, not seeing him.
He kept her mind flooded with him and he tried again. Elle. Take a breath. Breathe with me. He pried her fingers loose from her neck and pressed her palms flat over his lungs as he inhaled deeply and then let out the air. That's it, baby, with me. Feel that. We're together. The same skin, honey. You breathe and I'll breathe.
She was following his instructions, huddled, sheltered inside him, fearing Stavros reaching for her from a distance. Jackson leaned down and brushed the top of her head with a kiss. "We're okay now, Elle. You're home. You're safe." He drew her into his arms, cradling her against his chest, blanket and all. "Sarah will bring some clothes over for you tomorrow. In the meantime, you can wear mine, but they'll be a little big. We'll make do."
Elle clung to him for a moment, trying not to feel those fingers at her throat. A panic attack? She'd never had them before. Or had it been real? Had Stavros found her already? Sheena MacKenzie had ceased to exist. There was no way he should be able to trace her back to Elle Drake, and certainly not that fast. It had to have been a panic attack. She rubbed her throat, feeling bruised and sore. "Maybe I'm losing my mind, Jackson."
"And maybe you're traumatized, Elle." He kicked open the door and swept his hand toward the interior, signaling the dog to enter and search. Even with Elle in his arms, he had one hand near his weapon, tucked into his belt. The German Shepherd poked his head out a few minutes later and gave a short bark, signaling all-clear. Jackson stepped inside and put Elle down in the center of the room. "It isn't all that clean, honey. I didn't expect to bring you home with me."
Elle turned in a slow circle to take in the room. It was a man's room. High ceilings, all gleaming wood. The front of the house was a series of cathedral-like windows rising to the high beamed ceiling in panels, framed in the same polished wood. The floor matched the ceiling and walls as if the entire long open room had been hewn from the same piece of giant redwood. She walked over to the stone fireplace, again a very impressive piece that seemed masculine.
"It's beautiful, Jackson. And very open."
"I don't like to be closed in."
Her gaze jumped to his. A ghost of a smile touched her mouth. "Neither do I."
"You're welcome to look around, Elle. Treat the house as your home. I'll run you a bath." He kept his voice absolutely expressionless. "I'll have to look at your wounds and get them cleaned up and we need to do something with your hair."
Her hair. Her crowning glory, her mother called it. She hated her hair. She hated the feeling of Stavros running his fingers through it. "I think I'll cut it off. All of it." But he could still do that. Still slide his hands over her hair. Her stomach lurched and she was afraid she'd vomit.
"That's a bit drastic, Elle. I can comb out the tangles for you."
But Jackson was in her head. He knew. He saw. He was always going to know that Stavros would color everything she said or did for the rest of her life. She met Jackson's eyes and knew she couldn't hide from him. She wanted to weep for being so weak, for allowing Stavros to touch her . . .
"Don't! You didn't allow anything, Elle."
"Maybe if I'd fought harder. I don't know. I could have jumped off the yacht before it reached the island. Why didn't I?"
He crossed the room and gathered her into his arms. "You know better, baby. You're stronger than he thinks you are. You got away."
She pressed her face tightly against his heart. "I didn't though. He's inside of me. He's all over me. He's in my head."
Jackson framed her face with his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. "There's no room for him in your head, Elle. I'm there. I'll always be there and if he tries to come in I'll drive him out until you're strong enough to do it yourself. And there was never room for him in your heart because I was already there. He couldn't touch your soul. It belongs to you and no one else unless you decide to share."
"I know you need space, Jackson, but you can't leave me alone."
It cost her to say it out loud and he never would have made her. She was trying to atone, trying to give him something back when she was putting him at risk, when she knew she was going to lash out at him.
"You never have to do that, Elle, not with me," he said, meaning it. "I don't need that from you. I'm not going to be perfect here, we both know that. I'm mean as a snake most of the time and I like my own way. I haven't changed just because your disappearance scared the hell out of me. Don't worry about me."
"I can't," she said. "I can barely survive right now. You're the toughest man I know and I trust you with my sanity. I'm giving myself to you, Jackson, my soul. You said it was mine to give and you're the only one I know that is mean enough and tough enough to guard me, to guide me through this."
He knew what she meant. She was basically calling him a cross between a bastard and a saint. He was a bastard, but the saint--he'd have to see. He touched her hair and she jerked her head away.
Elle shook her head, upset that she couldn't control herself. "I'm sorry. He did that. He liked my hair
. I can't stand to look at it."
"So you want to cut it off? I can do it for you, honey, but it won't look so good."
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, grateful that he wasn't arguing. "I still don't know if I could take looking at it." She shuddered trying not to feel Stavros trailing his fingers over her scalp.
"You could always do dreads." Jackson flashed her a grin as he lifted the mass of red tangles. "You'd look pretty damn cute in dreads."
She lifted her head, her eyes going very green. "Dreads? I never thought of dreads. I wouldn't have to cut my hair and nobody could run their fingers through it."
Jackson went very still. It was the first time in three days Elle had shown a glimmer of interest in anything at all. "Think about it, baby. I could do them for you."
She studied his face. "You hate the idea."
"I'm in your head, Elle. You'd know if I hated it. I don't give a damn what you do to your hair. If you shaved your head it wouldn't make me feel any different about you. You want dreads, we'll dread your hair."
"My sisters might be horrified."
He grinned at her, a slow, deliberate conspirator's smile. "I think they're already pretty horrified that you're here with me." He indicated the way to the bathroom with his chin. "I have to feed Bomber. It takes hours to do dreads, especially with your hair, so think about it tonight and if you really want to do it, I'll get the supplies we'll need and we can start tomorrow."
Elle nodded and watched him saunter away to what presumably was his kitchen. Her heart instantly began to pound too hard. She wanted to scream after him--don't leave me alone, don't leave me alone--but she pressed her fingers against her mouth and listened to her heart hammering out a protest.
Jackson stuck his head back around the corner, his eyes dark and shadowed. "Can't you feel me, Elle? I'm with you every moment. You don't have to use telepathy, I can feel you. I'm not going anywhere."
She let her breath out, not realizing she'd been holding it. This was like walking through a minefield, every moment pure terror. She had to find a way to live again, figure out who she was, live with what had happened. She could taste Jackson in her mouth, his strength, his determination, and his ferociousness. Her gaze assessed him as he stepped fully back into the room. He wasn't as tall as Stavros, but he was built stronger, with wide shoulders and defined muscles. With his scarred face and his strong jaw, he wasn't handsome like the Greek, but there was something very compelling about Jackson. Where Stavros smiled at every opportunity, Jackson rarely did. Stavros rarely swore and Jackson, with his rough background, often slipped up, using crude terms that sometimes made her flinch.
Jackson crossed the distance separating them, rubbing the side of his face. "Do the scars bother you?"
His voice was flat, expressionless, and his eyes gave nothing away. Elle reached up with her fingers and traced the small jagged white lines. He didn't flinch under her touch. "Of course they don't bother me. I've always thought they were badges of courage."
He caught her hand and nipped at her fingers, giving a small derisive snort. "I wasn't feeling very courageous when I got them."
Elle took a deep breath and dropped the blanket. "Neither was I."
She was wearing his shirt still, the one he'd given her on the ship, along with a pair of soft sweatpants borrowed from one of her sisters and nothing beneath it. He could tell the material hurt her skin when she moved and there were traces of weeping blood crisscrossing the shirt and pants. She was trembling, her body still in shock.
He drew in his breath sharply. He'd seen a glimpse of her broken, bruised body when he picked her up off the floor, wrapping her in the sheet, but her robe had covered most of her. She'd stayed hidden after that, refusing to allow anyone to go near her. They'd all respected that because her eyes had been so hollow, so filled with sorrow she'd nearly torn their hearts to shreds. But he couldn't stop his slow steps forward, his hands from reaching out to slowly unbutton her shirt until it began to gape open.
Elle stayed still, holding her breath, her head high and he knew it cost her, that small show of courage. Jackson swept back the shirt to reveal the whip marks, some cut so deep he knew they'd leave scars. There were bruises and bite marks marring her soft skin. Without a word, he pushed the sweatpants down over her hips to see the slashes cutting across her hips and buttocks, down her thighs and even across her feminine mound. His breath burned in his lungs and rage erupted like an exploding volcano, but he shoved it down until it seethed below an ice-cold glacier, a boiling mass of brutal need for retaliation.
"I should take you to the hospital, Elle," he said, his voice a soft ribbon of sound, completely monotone. At her instinctive withdrawal, he locked his fingers with hers, preventing her from covering up. "I've seen worse, though, so I think we can deal with it ourselves. I do want your sister to give you a shot of antibiotics and then prescribe them for you."
"I don't want her to see."
He tugged her sweatpants up, careful to keep the material from brushing her body. "She won't intrude. You know Libby, of all your sisters, is the least intrusive." He began moving her toward the bathroom. The hallway was wide and opened up to a large bathroom with a sunken tub and a wide window with an ocean view. He saw her gaze shift to it and look hastily away. "Does it bother you that half the house is windows?"
She shook her head. "Not in the sense that Stavros's villa was glass. I know even if a boat was out there, no one on it could see me like this, but still, it feels as if I'm exposed to the world." She looked away from him. "To you."
"Don't feel that way about me, Elle. Whatever I know about you, you know about me. We're in this together. You have to look at it that way."
"I don't have a choice. I can't let you out of my mind and I think I'm afraid to let you out of my sight." She flashed a ghost of a smile.
He tugged on her hair. "Bath or shower? We have to wash those wounds and make certain you don't get an infection." He frowned as he pushed the shirt from her shoulders. "He either wasn't very experienced at this or he's a true sadist."
"What do you mean?"
"What was his goal? To force compliance? To punish you? Why leave permanent marks on you? If he was a dominant, he wouldn't have done that, not unless he really likes hurting people."
"His brother showed him how to 'punish' me when I didn't comply. I had the feeling he was giving him a crash course in 'breaking' a woman, although he took to it very fast."
"His brother?" Jackson prompted, his voice carefully neutral. "You haven't said much about the brother." He only knew she'd spoken of him that once with such fear and loathing.
She didn't want to think about Stavros's brother with his dead eyes and his hungry expression. Now there was a sadist. He definitely liked to inflict pain on women, and she had been so terrified of him, she'd actually looked to Stavros for protection. She was ashamed of that--horrified even--and didn't want to see Jackson's reaction. He had been in her mind and had seen that moment when her breath had caught in her throat and she had made an involuntary move toward Stavros. She'd seen the triumph in the Greek's eyes, but right then it hadn't mattered, only his protection of her from his even crueler, far too hungry brother.
"It wasn't because I was a desirable woman," she mused aloud. "They both sensed I was psychic, yet I didn't know they were. I just thought they had natural barriers as some people do, but I underestimated them."
Jackson chose the shower for her. Already she was swaying with weariness, but she couldn't comfortably sit in a bathtub. He was going to get very wet holding her up, but his comfort didn't matter--only hers. He stripped off his shirt and shoes, leaving on his jeans for her modesty, before checking the water temperature. "Stavros doesn't usually play with whips?"
"I didn't get that impression, but his brother obviously not only played, but really enjoyed playing."
"Do you think they run a human trafficking ring together?" Again he kept his voice casual, not wanting to trigger a panic attack.
He was feeling his way with her, but her mind was like a minefield--one wrong step and she might retreat back into the sanctuary she'd found for herself. A place she could huddle deep and hold herself away from the brutal crimes committed against her.
Elle let the soft sound of the water and Jackson's reassuring presence soothe her. She was safe. Back home in her beloved Sea Haven. Her ocean, with its pounding waves and wild, untamed seascape, was right outside. If she wanted to, she could go sit on the sand and watch the waves breaking against the rocks, in a timeless display of power and beauty. She took a breath and let it out.
"One minute at a time, baby," Jackson said, turning her so he could gently remove the shirt where the blood had dried and stuck to her skin.
He kept his eyes on her face, on the mass of red hair, focusing on the wounds rather than on her soft skin and the curves of her body. He wanted her to feel as comfortable as possible when he knew already she wasn't. She was acutely aware of his hands touching her, of the washcloth sliding over her as she leaned against him for strength. She kept her head down, not wanting him to read her expression, although she never once pulled her mind from his.
Her nudity made her feel vulnerable, but the stark wounds on her body made her exposure far worse. Jackson knew she was thinking of how the whip marks and long lines of bruising had been put there and what Stavros had done to her afterward and hated him seeing the images burned into her mind. He kept his thoughts still, holding only strength and warmth flowing from him to her, grateful for the ability to push rage deep beneath the glacier of ice in the pit of his soul where she couldn't find it. There was only his need to protect her, to help her through her trauma.
The water poured over both of them, Elle resting her back against him while he washed her breasts and rib cage.
"Can you lean against the wall, baby?" he asked her, gently moving her into position so he could wash the rest of her body, down her abdomen where his child should be nestling, lower to the wicked marks dissecting her feminine mound. He forced himself to keep his mind from straying toward vengeance, holding only care for her uppermost.