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Delaney
I’d passed out.
Whether it was from pain or just sheer exhaustion, I had no idea.
But I hadn’t heard the bike coming. Or the footsteps on the floor above me.
It wasn’t until I heard them on the steps coming toward me that I woke up with a start, immediately getting up onto my knees, heart hammering in my chest.
The plan once I knocked the beam loose was to get my cuff off of it and then pick it up and use it to defend myself.
To hit or jab or whatever I needed to do to disable Patrick and give myself a chance to flee.
But as the footsteps came rushing down, I knew I didn’t have enough time to put my plan into action.
The wave of grief and helplessness was cut short, though.
Because the voice that spoke wasn’t Patrick’s.
It was Jass’s.
For one devastating moment, I was sure I was dreaming or even hallucinating.
But then he was charging across the basement and dropping down in the dirt on his knees, his hands wrapping around me.
Gently, but firmly, somehow at the same time.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re safe,” he added as a sob escaped me as I realized that was it. It was over.
I didn’t have to worry about saving myself. Or what would happen to me at the hands of Patrick if I didn’t manage to do that.
It was all over.
Like my dreams come to life, Jass had saved me.
I was vaguely aware of another hand touching the back of my neck, curling in. Like he needed to touch me too to know I was okay.
Cillian.
“Let’s get her out of here,” Eoin called from somewhere behind Jass.
They’d teamed up?
Jass nodded, pulling me onto his lap, then putting his arms under my knees and back, lifting me carefully against him as he got to his feet.
The light was blinding as we moved outside, making me press my face into Jass’s shoulder.
“I’ll take your bike back,” Rian offered as Jass walked me to the SUV, climbing into the back with me.
“Are you hurt, Dell?” Sean asked as he piled into the third row behind Jass and me.
“My ribs and shoulder,” I told him. “He yanked my arms behind my back,” I recalled, wincing at the memory.
From the passenger seat, Conor let out a string of curses as Cillian threw the SUV into reverse.
“Wish I could resurrect that motherfucker and drag the torture out for a couple of weeks,” Conor declared, making my eyes pop open, looking up at Jass.
Resurrect?
“You don’t need to worry about him anymore,” Jass assured me, something in his voice and in his face making me think he’d been the one to deal whatever deathblow there had been.
“How?” I asked.
“We’re not getting into that now,” Cillian declared. “We’re almost at Dr. Price’s place,” he added.
“I don’t need—“ I started to insist.
“You’re getting checked out,” Cillian cut me off.
“Gotta make sure your shoulder didn’t get more jacked up,” Jass reasoned, shrugging. “It won’t be that long, okay? Then we can get you home.”
“Home,” I repeated, barely suppressing the shiver that moved through me at the idea.
“What’s the matter?” Jass asked as Cillian pulled the SUV down Dr. Price’s street.
Apparently, I hadn’t suppressed that shiver well enough.
“Pat said… he, ah, he used to watch me,” I told the car, hearing another curse out of Conor.
“What?” Jass asked.
“Since I was a teenager,” I added, looking up at Jass, seeing the disgust there. “He said he stood in the yard and watched me change and…”
“Okay,” Jass said, giving me a gentle squeeze. “We don’t have to go home.”
“Who the fuck—“ Conor started.
“Don’t,” Cillian cut him off. “Not the time,” he added in a lower voice, effectively silencing Conor for the rest of the short drive.
Dr. Price lived and worked in the same building—an old Victorian at the edge of the suburbs, just a hop, skip, and jump from the police station.
It had been converted into two houses before he bought it, and he’d gone ahead and used the right side for his office, and the left for his home.
He’d spent a huge sum of money getting the old building back to its former glory.
The wooden shakes were painted white, the shutters and both front doors were a deep wine red.
The only way you could tell that one side was an office was the metal plaque on the door stating his name and the office hours. Along with his cell phone for emergencies. Because that was the kind of doctor he was.
“I can walk,” I insisted as Jass scooted toward the door when Cillian opened it for him.
“I’m sure you can,” Jass agreed. “But you don’t have to right now,” he added, carrying me up the front walk that was lined with meticulously maintained seasonal plants and flowers.
Early spring meant that there were happy yellow daffodils greeting us as we walked as a mob toward the front door.
