Page 75 of Wicked Heat

“Bree,” he began, intending to tell her exactly that. But she held up a hand and shook her head as she stood, tears streaming silently down her face as she lifted her chin and met his eyes.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then just shook her head again before turning and hurrying into the smaller of the suite’s two bedrooms, then shutting the door behind her.

Shit.

He took a step that direction, then stopped, knowing full well that she needed space, and going into that room now would be about helping himself, not her.

But, dammit, he really wanted to go to her.

Then again, it was probably better that he didn’t follow her. The last thing she needed was to see him lose his shit. And right then, he was on the verge of losing it all over the damn place.

With a start, he realized his arm was already back, ready to hurl a small vase he hadn’t even realized he’d picked up. Dammit.

As much as he wanted the satisfaction of throwing that thing and watching it shatter, he put it down gently, then snatched one of the decorative pillows off the sofa and hurled it toward the balcony door. It hit the glass with a soft thud, then fell to the floor.

Not satisfying. Not satisfying at all.

But at least it calmed him enough that he knew he could contain his shit when he checked on her. Assuming she’d let him in the room.

He tapped lightly on the door, then leaned close, listening for permission. Nothing.

He considered walking away, but he needed to see her. Needed to look at her to reassure himself that she was okay. And, yeah, he needed her to truly understand that his help didn’t stop at the three million. He would give her whatever she needed.

Once more, he tapped the door, and this time when she didn’t answer, he turned the knob. Unlocked. He told himself that was as much an invitation as anything, and slowly pushed the door open.

She was curled up on the bed, her head on one of the many pillows and her legs up near her chest. He moved to her, taking the afghan from the foot of the bed and covering her before settling himself on the edge of the mattress.

“Should I leave?”

She shook her head, and the relief that flowed through him was more powerful than any emotion he could ever remember feeling.

“I didn’t want you to see that,” she whispered.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the action camouflaging his desperate need to touch her. “I didn’t want either one of us to see it.” He drew a breath. “I never knew it was like that,” he said, his voice still as soft as cats’ paws. “The kidnapping. From what little Damien has told me, I thought you were kept captive. Not hurt.”

“They didn’t hurt me.”

“The hell they didn’t,” he snapped, the words bringing a hint of a smile to her lips.

“I mean not physically,” she said. “But they definitely fucked me up.”

“Why—”

“Damien doesn’t know,” she said, anticipating his question. “Nobody does.” She closed her eyes, then drew in a noisy breath as if gathering courage. “I didn’t even know.”

It took him a second to realize he was standing, thrust to his feet by the horror her words implied.

“None of it?”

“I’ve had nightmares ever since.” One bare shoulder moved, the tiniest of shrugs. “Now I know why. Guess my tormentor saved me a little bit on my therapy bill, huh?”

“Don’t joke.”

“Better than crying. Believe me, I’ve cried enough to know it doesn’t do shit.”

“Bree.” He sat again on the edge of the bed. Gently, he stroked her hair, relief coursing through him when she didn’t cringe away.

He wanted to find the words that would make it all better. He wanted to promise her that he would find out who’d sent that video and kill them with his bare hands. He wanted kiss her and make it all better, just like the prince in a fairy tale.