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“This just makes it official. Come on, you know I’m not going to change my mind. Stop protesting. Let’s go help Sam get Kye out of here.”
Godfather? Kye and her bar fights and Samantha Bryce all in one night?
He could feel karma’s teeth on his ass and it wasn’t pleasant.
Not in the least.
NINE
She was restless.
By the next evening, Doogan still hadn’t returned to the apartment, and though Eli had been there the night before, he was gone early the next morning.
Dreams had haunted her sleep, and they haunted her after she woke. Like flashbacks, the colors icy blue and emerald green, something scarred and something gold.
Working out in the gym didn’t alleviate the restlessness this time, nor did it ease the constriction in her chest; the certainty that there was something she had to remember, something imperative eluding her, was driving her crazy.
Her fists slammed into the punching bag; she kicked at it, pummeled it with all the fury and certain knowledge that time was running out.
The nightmares were becoming worse, but they were changing. How they were changing she couldn’t remember.
“You killed me, Zoey . . .”
But he wasn’t dead. He was glaring at her, emerald-green eyes so like Natches, filled with anger and hatred.
She couldn’t fight him because she was restrained. Her wrists and ankles were tied to her bed, panic and horror raced through her.
Slamming her fist into the bag, Zoey collapsed against it, her ragged breaths half sobs as pain exploded through her head, nearly taking her to her knees with the force of the agonizing strike of sensation.
She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t talk about the nightmares; the pain became worse and sometimes just thinking about it was enough to fill her with agony. She just wanted it to stop. The nightmares, the fear, the certainty that there was far more involved than just her overactive imagination playing with her were growing by the day.
But there were no answers.
Even her sisters believed it was just a nightmare.
Even Sam . . .
“Come on, Zoey, let’s get you inside before someone sees you . . .” Sam picked her up, the warmth of her body a shock against Zoey’s icy flesh.
“I’m so sorry . . . Tell Momma I’m so sorry, Sam . . .”
The other woman laid her in a bed.
“Here, you’re so cold, Zoey. Let me turn the heat on, honey. Let’s get you warm . . .”
“I killed Harley, Sam. I killed him. I have to tell you. I killed Harley.” She gripped Sam’s arm, trying to hold on to her as the agony in her head refused to dim.
Then the warmth was surrounding her. It didn’t touch the iciness inside her, but it eased the painful cold on the outside.
So cold . . .
She was going to throw up.
The pain was too much; it was blinding now, like needles piercing and ripping through her brain, cracking it open.
“. . . pop your little head like a grape . . .”
She went to her knees, her hands gripping her head, fighting the pain and the roiling in her stomach as ice seemed to encase her entire body.
