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“Yes,” I agreed. “He has to be stopped.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sway
It wasn’t the whole story.
What she told us in the kitchen, about the kidnapping, about the bastard who kept her in a dungeon, starving her, and scaring her into submission.
It wasn’t the whole story.
She didn’t owe us all the details.
But I knew something more had happened down there, something that had her screaming at night, that made her inconsolable with the memories of it.
She gave us the outline, left us to fill in the finer details. And each detail my imagination added to the full picture, fuck, it made my blood boil, made my hands flex.
I wanted to track down this Cain Roth, wrap said hands around his throat, and squeeze the fucking life out of him.
He had to die.
He was going to die.
And while I respected that maybe Murphy wanted to do it herself, I made a vow to end that motherfucker myself.
I agreed with Slash.
The man seemed fixated on her.
Maybe because she was the one woman he hadn’t been able to break. Not fully. The one who had gotten away from him.
Men like him, they obsessed over that kind of shit.
He wasn’t going to stop until someone stopped him.
Telling us some of the details seemed to take a weight off of Murphy’s shoulders that day. Though, as the guys and girls kind of cleared out, gave her some space to settle in, seeming to sense that she was uncomfortable with the situation, and trying to ease her into it.
She walked the dogs.
She ate the take-out I’d ordered.
Then, finally, she agreed to go with me to the store.
After that, another walk.
When we got back, everyone was already home and in their own rooms.
“I’m just gonna grab a change of clothes,” I told her as I rode up the elevator with her.
“Okay,” she agreed, going into my room, and starting to pull some of her things out of the bags. “Hey, Sway?” she called after I grabbed a tee and pajama pants.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Why don’t you stay?” she asked. “I mean, this is your bed. I can stay on the couch,” she said, waving toward it.
“No,” I said, watching her tense. “I’ll take the couch,” I said, watching her relax a little. At the idea of me being nearby?
She had to know she was safe at the club as a whole, so it didn’t have to do with safety. She just wanted me there.
“Do you mind if I catch a shower first?” she asked, waving toward the door.
“Baby, think of it like your house for the time being. You don’t have to ask to do shit here. Unless you decide to take up yodeling at three a.m. or some shit.”
“I think you’re the one with the musical track record,” she said, wincing at the memory of my car singing.
“Hey, my mother told me I was a very good singer,” I insisted.
“Yeah, well, your mother lied,” she told me, smirking as she made her way toward the hallway with her robe.
She didn’t seem to think better of that choice until she came back to grab her clothes, and remembered I was there.
She shimmied her panties and pants up under the robe. Then there was a pause, standing with her back to me, like she was making a decision.
I didn’t understand what or why until the robe fell down her back to pool on the floor.
I saw nothing out of the usual at first, save for the back piece she had mentioned when I’d asked her about having more tattoos.
But then I saw it amongst the shades of blue and black of the night sky and seaside dock she had tattooed there.
Imperfections.
Raised spots.
Rippled skin.
Redness.
Scars.
Her entire fucking back was covered in big scars. Like from a whip. Or a belt.
When she’d talked about her old man, there was affection in her voice. Sure, it sounded like the guy maybe had some mental health issues in the way she described him, but he didn’t seem cruel. Not enough to take a belt to her back, to open her up like that.
Which left one possibility.
Cain Roth.
That motherfucker who had her kidnapped, who’d ‘pressed her’ until she broke.
There was no doubt in my mind that violence was part of that equation.
And here was the proof of it.
“Baby,” I said, voice soft, an exhale of sound, as I climbed off the couch and walked up behind her.
She was showing me on purpose, still standing there with her back exposed when she could have covered up several times over by the time I made it to her.
Up close, it was even worse, more obvious amongst the well done art on her back. Thick, nasty marks. Ones that would have had a hard as fuck time healing because the skin had been so torn open from the lashings.
“I only gave the Cliffsnotes version downstairs,” she admitted, voice small, low, like she didn’t want others to overhear.
