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“Duty sucks sometimes,” she rasped, unsure if she could stand on her own if he let her go.
“Yeah, it does.” He pointed to the sofa as he helped her dress. “This is a bed. Sheets, blankets, and pillows are in the closet when you’re ready to go to sleep.” He gave her a hard kiss on the lips and stepped away. “I’ll be back soon to finish what we started.”
The wink he shot over his shoulder before he closed the door almost spurred another orgasm. She watched him leave, all business except for the adjustment of his hard cock in his pants.
Voices she heard onlyin her dreams flitted through Rosalie’s subconscious.
“Please, Daddy. Keep fighting. Don’t you dare die on me.”
A pleading voice, deep with warning, grew closer. “Turn around.”
She couldn’t. The nurse had only granted her two minutes alone with her father after his surgery. Only two minutes to return the tough love he’d spent a lifetime giving her.
Another voice, this one gentle yet unfeeling, taunted her from behind. “That’s right, Rosalie. Look at your father. Let your guard down.”
Desperation ran down her neck and coated her in sweat. She wanted to look back. Her father had preached the importance of being aware of her surroundings, but her head wouldn’t turn to the curtain behind her, and her eyes wouldn’t move away from her father’s ghostly face.
“Please, Daddy. Please. You have to fight.” If she begged him louder and shut out the voice encouraging her to waste precious seconds, maybe her father would wake up.
“Turn around.” The warning voice grew more adamant. “Turn. Around.”
The cold voice grew gentler. “Don’t worry, Rosalie. Focus on your father. You’re safe.”
Safe?
The word cut through her consciousness and suspended her between nightmare and reality. She never felt safe. Not asleep. Not awake. No matter where or when she replayed that night at her father’s bedside, Malgor’s knife always sliced her skin.
Always.
Every. Single. Time.
Even though she knew it wouldn’t do any good, she tried to smack the blade away before it sliced into her back. And even though she’d expected the searing pain, she still screamed as if she’d been stabbed for the first time.
SEVENTEEN
Cannon jerked his hand away from Rosalie’s back. His fingers stung from the force of her blow. When he’d come out of the bathroom after showering off the aftermath of a gruesome night in the ER, he’d expected to find her still asleep. He didn’t need a PhD to know why she was kneeling on his sofa bed, clutching her back, or why she’d shoved his hand away like he was holding the knife that’d sliced her.
He gently touched her shoulder. “Rosalie, it’s me, Cannon.”
“No.” She jerked her arm back toward his midsection.
He caught her elbow in his hand. Snaking his arm around her torso, he pulled her rigid back against his bare chest. “It’s just a nightmare, baby.”
He held her struggling body in his arms and nuzzled his lips into the hair blanketing her neck. “Wake up for me, Snow Angel.”
She stilled. “Cannon?”
“It’s me. I’ve got you.” He gently turned her in his lap to face him. The anguish in her raw pleas had sliced into his heart. Each time she’d begged her father to live, he’d bled a little more. How many times had he pleaded with his own father to survive?
He dropped a kiss on her nose. “Tell me about your nightmare.”
She shook her head. Her hair tickled his cheek. Hot tears seeped onto his bare chest.
“Talking about it might help.” Living and working in a community where everyone knew his father and kept his memory alive helped with the grief.
She sniffed. “I can’t. It’s too…”
“I get it.” He rubbed her back and gently rocked her, cradling the tough yet vulnerable special agent against him.
