Hush (Black Lotus #3) (2 page)

When I open my eyes again, they sting against the fully risen sun, and my cheeks burn with the bite of salt. I’m still wrapped within Declan’s arms, and my body aches not only from being in this position for God knows how long, but also from the torture of the past couple days of being held captive.

“I hurt.”

Declan stands and scoops me off the floor before laying me on the bed. He hovers above me, looking over my battered face and body with eyes filled with rage and pity.

His expression irks me. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Look at me like that. Like you feel sorry for me.”

“I’m worried about you. That’s all.” He then hands me a painkiller that I slip into my mouth.

“I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.”

“I don’t either. But you’ve been through a lot lately, so I don’t think your mind is capable of clarity. Mine isn’t either. So let’s focus on one thing at a time, okay?”

“All I can focus on is why my dad’s face is on that screen when it shouldn’t be. I don’t know if I should be happy or angry,” I tell him. “Why didn’t he want me?”

Declan doesn’t respond as he pulls me against him. I try to fight the haze from the pills that creeps in, but my eyes grow heavy when Declan whispers softly into my ear, lulling me with a comforting, “Shh, darling. I’ll take care of you. I’ll do what I can to find the answers.”

And as I hang on to his words, I give in, releasing a breath before drifting to sleep.

Elizabeth trembles in her sleep as I hold her. My mind is a goddamn labyrinth as I close my eyes and attempt to process the past forty-eight hours. It’s an impossible task as visions race with a hundred new revelations and a thousand new questions. The only thing I do know is that I’m terrified I won’t be able to keep Elizabeth from having a full-on mental collapse.

Her face is a canvas of bruises, welts, and lacerations that illustrate the rape and torture she’s been through. It pains me to know that I play a part, that some of those wounds were put there by my own hands and the others were put there because I couldn’t protect her from that asshole—Richard—the man I murdered.

I didn’t even hesitate when I put a bullet in his head after Elizabeth told me he killed my mum. The fact that I could kill so easily scares the shit out of me. It’s a grim feeling to be terrified of your own self. I now know I’m capable of anything. I’m a monster created by this woman, whose body is wrapped around mine.

I want an explanation, just as she. Who was Richard? How did he know my mum? Why did he kill her? What part does my father play in all of this? I want to know. I want to understand, but as out of control as I am, she is more volatile than I. She needs strength, so I have to set aside all that haunts me right now and focus on her.

When her breaths even out, I slip out of bed and allow her the rest her body desperately craves. I stop before I walk out of the room and look at Elizabeth lying in my bed as a swell of contentment and anger rushes in a tidal wave under my skin. She’s knocked my control off its axis, and I need to steady it back into place to keep her safe—to make sure nothing else happens without my say-so.

“CHRIST,” LACHLAN SAYS
with a startle when I slam the double doors to the library, closing us off from the rest of the house.

With my back facing him, my hands grip tightly around the door handles in a lame attempt to control my turmoil. There’s rioting in my bones, rattling me into a cold sweat. Pulling back to open the doors slightly, I slam them once more, grunting, hammering my palm into the aged mahogany.

“What can I do?” Lachlan questions from across the room.

A string of answers fills my head and wraps around my neck in a tightening noose. I can’t talk as I think about Elizabeth upstairs in a drug-induced sleep. Visions from when I found her last night flash behind my eyes in vivid detail. Her naked and bloodied body, the bruising and lacerations between her legs from what that dickfuck did to her, it brings up sour bile that I fight to swallow back.

All I wanted to give her when she woke this morning was as much peace as I could, but instead, I watched her world erupt into even more chaos. Chaos she doesn’t need. Chaos I’m worried she’s not stable enough to handle.

“Declan.”

I turn and face my friend, thankful that he stayed the night and is here right now, because there’s no way I could sort through my deranged thoughts on my own without smashing my fists through the walls and destroying this house in a blacked out rage.

“How is she?” he questions.

“Sleeping.” The word is strangled as it comes out. I walk over to the couch and sit down, lowering my head to meet my clenched fists. My harsh breaths through my nose are audible. I won’t allow Elizabeth to see this. She needs to believe I’m in utter control and that she’s completely safe with me.

“How is she really?” he pushes for a better answer than the one I just gave him.

I look up and meet his concerned eyes as he takes the seat on the other side of the coffee table.

“She’s not good.”

I won’t go into detail with Lachlan, because what’s hers is mine and no one else’s.

“Look, what happened last night, what you witnessed—” I start to say but Lachlan cuts in, “It’s vaulted.”

“It better be,” I tell him, my voice glazed in unspoken threats. “You’ll never speak of it, not even with her, understand?”

“Without fail,” he responds with a nod.

“I need your help,” I tell him, shifting the conversation.

“Anything.”

“I need you to find someone for me.”

“Who?”

“His name is Steve Archer.”

With a curious look, he responds, “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“He’s Elizabeth’s father.”

“Her father?” he reacts in surprise. “He’s dead. I came across his death certificate when I found her mother.”

“I don’t know. We were upstairs watching an American news report and she swears she saw him.”

“On TV? There’s no way.”

“She’s adamant.”

“Declan, her mind has to be a mare’s nest right now. I’m sure she’s seeing what she wishes to see,” he says. “The man is dead.”

I shrug my shoulders, releasing a heavy breath. “Pull the news footage and compare the two men.”

Lachlan steps over to the desk in the corner of the room, and I follow, directing him to the correct news station webpage. We find the video, play it, and when I see the man who Elizabeth made me pause on, I reach down and stop the video, freezing on his face.

“Him.”

It takes a few minutes to find an archived article on his arrest, but Lachlan finally comes across one with a photo.

“There,” I say when I see the link. “Click on that.”

And with a single click, I know Elizabeth isn’t imagining things. It may be an old photo, but there’s no way I can argue that it’s not the same man.

“Holy shit,” Lachlan says as he compares both of the photos.

“That’s him. Tell me you’re seeing what I’m seeing.”

“I’m seeing it.”

“Fuck!” Raking my hands through my hair, I pace over to the windows, wishing I never had the goddamn TV turned on this morning. “I can’t allow anyone else to hurt her.

“I know.”

“Jesus. I mean, she just found out that her piece of shit mother sold her when was just a baby. And now this? I don’t think she can take much more.”

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

She won’t let this go. Not that I could expect her to. But I need to keep the upper hand here and remain two steps in front of her.

“Find him. And nothing, not a single piece of information gets past me. Understood?”

“I understand.”

“You screwed up once,” I berate. “Don’t do it again.”

He stands, steps over to me, and assures, “You have my word.” My glare doesn’t waver because what’s at stake is too precious to gamble with. Lachlan sees the doubt, grips my shoulder with his hand, and states firmly, “I care about that girl too.”

“Then don’t fuck this up.”

With a curt nod, he squeezes my shoulder before walking away and pulling out his phone.

“I want security too,” I call out. “She’s not to be alone.”

“I’ll get on that now.”

“You’ll do.”

“I’m not security, McKinnon.”

“You’re right. You’re a fuckin’ dobber when it comes to taking orders. But after last night, you’re the only one I trust to keep her safe when I’m not around.”

“I’ll need to situate a few things in Edinburgh.”

“Do it today,” I tell him. “You can stay in the cottage next to the grotto.”

“The cottage?” He laughs. “You mean the maid’s quarters?”

“That’s the one, you wanker,” I respond with a chuckle. “Oh, one more thing,” I add before Lachlan leaves the room, exchanging the banter for seriousness, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

I’m willing to go to any length to make sure nothing comes close to touching Elizabeth, but options are limited with the history the two of us carry. Although our time together has been short, it’s been riddled with more than enough to land us both in prison. So Lachlan is it for us.

Wandering into the kitchen, I walk over to the security monitor on the wall and check the cameras out front. I flip through them and stop on the gate camera. I’m watching as Lachlan’s car drives out onto the main road when my cell rings.

“McKinnon,” I answer.

“Good afternoon, Mr. McKinnon. It’s Alexander Stanforth from Stanforth and Partners. How are you doing?”

“I’m well,” I respond to Alex, the architect that will be working on the London property I recently purchased.

“I hope you don’t mind my calling on your cell, but with your interest in expediting the initial meetings, I figured I would bypass your office manager.”

“It’s why I gave you this number, Alex.”

“Good. Well then, I’d like to set up a meeting to discuss the scope of the project, along with schedule and budget. Are you free next week?”

“I can be free. Set it up and call my office to get it on the books, and I’ll be there,” I tell him.

“Sounds good. I’ll get with the team and give your office a call later today.”

“Thanks, Alex.”

Hanging up the phone, I grab an ice pack from the freezer and make my way up to Elizabeth. She’s sound asleep when I enter the room and sit down next to her. The side of her face is swollen; black and blue mar her eye. Gently, I touch the ice to her skin and she flinches.

“Sorry,” I whisper when her eyes flutter open. “The swelling is really bad.”

Her eyes are dilated dopey black, but she doesn’t keep them open long. I watch her lie motionless, soft breaths filling the space around me.

“We used to dance,” her hoarse voice murmurs.

“Who?”

“Me and my dad.”

I don’t say anything when she curls her body over and lifts her head onto my lap.

“Dean Martin was his favorite,” she says sleepily, never opening her eyes. “‘Volare’ . . . that’s the song. He’d sing along, and I remember always giggling during the Italian parts.”

“He had a good voice?” I ask, keeping the ice on her.

“Mmm hmm,” she answers slowly in her listless state. “He’d set me on top of his feet and dance while I hung on to his legs.”

She pauses, letting time falter, and I think she’s fallen back asleep, but then she begins to blink. When her glassy eyes find me, she whimpers, “Why would he leave me?”