Page 41 of Inflict

Connor would have to deal with the consequences later.

Whatever they may be.

“You know where the back door is downstairs, right?” Connor asked.

Another nod.

“Go there and wait.”

At first, she didn’t move.

Connor let out a hard sigh. “What, lass?”

Her gaze jumped toward the foot of the bed, and then back to him. He didn’t have the first clue what she wanted, whether it was to sit back down where she had been, or what.

“I don’t understand silence,” he told her.

Slowly, and silently, she bent down, her hands slipping under the foot of the bed, even while her gaze never left him up above her. She pulled out a familiar sight—something any artist would recognize—and stood straight, hugging the sketchbook close to her chest.

The residual blankness in her gaze disappeared for a moment, and for the briefest flash, Connor was positive he saw a challenge staring back at him. Like she was silently daring him with her eyes and nothing more to take the sketchbook from her, or tell her to leave it. He almost did, just to see if he could break her silence.

Maybe she’s not as gone as you thought.

“All right, you got your book,” Connor said, surprised at the gruffness in his tone. “Is there anything else?”

She shook her head once, and without even needing to be told, headed out the door. Connor stood in that unfamiliar bedroom, listening to the soft pad of her footsteps that were almost completely silent, as she headed down the stairs. He thought had there been any normal noise in the house, no one would even know she was there.

Like a ghost.

All dressed in white …

Connor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in, and it was feckin’ painful. His gaze scoured the room as he backed out of it, and the things he took note of only confirmed his suspicions even more. A pallet bed in the corner, forgotten like a pet’s might be, with a thin blanket and no pillow, caught his eye last.

He was going to burn this place to the feckin’ ground.

And for a whole new set of reasons, he wasn’t going to regret even a second of it.

• • •

Evelyn did not like the Harley, or so it seemed. Connor had pulled out his jacket from the saddle bag, wrapped it around her thin shoulders, and set her where she needed to be on the bike. He quickly figured out that putting her on the bitch seat wasn’t going to work, because she wasn’t willing to release her sketchbook, and Connor suddenly didn’t have the heart to take it from her, when she was holding onto the damn thing like a feckin’ lifeline or something.

Instead, he’d put his helmet on her, deciding to take the risk of having her ride in front of him, as she didn’t obstruct his driving or maneuvering. As long as no goddamn cops saw them, they should have been fine.

And they were for the drive.

For the most part …

By the time Connor pulled up to the rear of his brownstone in upper Brooklyn, Evelyn was shaking like a wee leaf that was stuck in hurricane winds. At some point in the long drive, she had gotten so afraid that she damn near caused him to wreck when she turned around and bear hugged him.

“The truck next time, then,” Connor said, peeling Evelyn off him and setting her back on the bike. “I don’t know about you, love, but I’ve got no interest in being scraped off the pavement like a feckin’ langer.”

She just blinked at him from her perch on the bike.

Yeah, he didn’t know what to make of himself half of the time, either.

Connor walked the Harley in through the back, before locking the gate on the fence, and pushing down the kickstand to balance the bike. “Off we go, lass.”

Evelyn didn’t move.