Otherworldly Bad Boys: Three Complete Novels (8 page)

She wanted—more than anything—to open the door again. Closing herself off from him felt like losing a limb.

* * *

“What the hell was that, Gray?” Avery was standing in the middle of her living room, arms crossed over his chest.

Dana was curled up on her couch, her arms around her knees.

At first, Avery had only been concerned with whether or not she was okay. Once he ascertained that she hadn’t sustained any bodily harm, he tried to get back into the room and get at Cole. She thought he was going to make good on that threat to strangle him.

A guard interfered, however, and Avery got her back up to her apartment. Once they were inside, he’d just exploded.

“What was what?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“You,” he said, “and him. What the fuck? You were staring at him like some kind of lovesick teenager.”

She rested her forehead against her knees.

“Jesus Christ, you can’t actually...” He sat down on the couch next to her. “What did he do to you?”

“I don’t know.” What was she supposed to say? “Chantal says it’s Stockholm syndrome.”

“Chantal?”

“My shrink.”

“Your shrink knows that you have... a
thing
for Cole Randall, and she signed off that you were okay to come back to work?”

“I don’t have a thing for him.” She looked up at Avery. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s fucked up,” he said.

“I know.”

Avery slumped into the couch. “Shit, Gray.”

“I didn’t think it was so... obvious,” she said.

“Maybe it’s not,” he said. “To anyone else. But I know you. I could tell.”

She lowered her head again.

“I read the reports,” he said. “You never indicated that he...”

She looked up at him.

His jaw worked. When he did speak again, he’d adopted a very matter-of-fact tone. His work voice. “We’ve been operating under the assumption there was no sexual assault.”

She tugged her knees tighter.

“Did you leave things out of the reports, Dana?” He’d used her first name. He gazed at her with concern in his eyes.

“Nothing important,” she said.

“So what does that mean?”

She rested her chin against her knees. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“For fuck’s sake, Gray—”

“I came back to work so that I could have something else to think about. I begged Chantal to let me. He’s all I think about, Brooks, do you understand? I can’t get him out of my head. We’re away from him. I don’t want to talk about him right now. I want to talk about something else.
Anything
else.”

He closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the couch. “I missed you. I wanted you back. But you’re not ready.”

“I am.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Look, he made some good points down there. We don’t know whether the two rogue attacks this weekend were deliberate. It’s possible that something happened that made the two of them involuntarily lose control of their wolves. And if that’s true, then there might be a connection.”

Avery sat up straight. “I think he made up something vaguely plausible to get you to come see him. I don’t think you should give any of his theories any weight.”

“If it was involuntary, there could be a danger to other rehabilitated wolves, Brooks. And we could be imprisoning innocent people. We have to look into it.”

He hung his head, staring at the floor. “I don’t think you should look into anything. I think you need to go back on leave.”

“Brooks, you don’t mean that.”

He stood up. “I have to tell King what I saw. I have to tell her you have unhealthy feelings for Randall. It’s for your own good.”

She jumped to her feet. “Please don’t. She won’t let me work.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “You shouldn’t
be
working.”

“I
need
to be working,” she said. “It’s the only way I’m going to get over all of it. I know this is the only way. Please, don’t say anything.”

“I’m really sorry.” He dropped his hands and turned to leave.

She caught his arm. “Damn it, Brooks. This is me. Your partner. How long have we worked together?”

“You aren’t yourself.”

“I am. Look, you owe me. I’ve covered for your ass before. Remember that time you got drunk and wolfed out?”

He cringed. “Yeah, that was fucked up of me, but what you’re going through, it’s on another whole level.”

“It’s not.”

“You have feelings for a serial killer.”

“Not feelings,” she said. “I don’t... care about him or anything. It’s just... It’s confusing.”
For both of us
, whispered a silken voice in her head. “I need some time, but I’m going to work through it. And I need to have something else to focus on while I’m doing that. Please, Brooks. Give me time.”

He wavered. “How much time?

“Not much,” she said.

“Not much, huh?”

“I promise.”

He sighed. “I can’t believe I’m going to agree to this.”

* * *

Six months ago, in Cole’s basement, he came down the steps with a bowl of soup. “This will keep you hydrated and nourished.”

He put a spoonful of the liquid in Dana’s mouth. She had an urge to spit it on him, but she realized she was hungry, so she swallowed.

“It isn’t too hot, is it?” he asked.

It was the perfect temperature. What did he want? Her to be grateful for the fact he was being a good kidnapper? She didn’t think so. “What’s the point? You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“That was my plan,” he said. “I honestly haven’t decided. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I’ll try not to keep you in suspense forever.” He put another spoonful of soup in her mouth. “It would be cowardly to just let you starve to death, though. If I’m going to kill you, I’m going to do it right.”

She almost did spit the soup on him then, but she was struck with an idea. If she consented to letting him take off her clothes to wash her, he’d have to unchain her to get the sleeves over her hands. With her limbs free, maybe she could get away from him—knock him out or something. Put up some kind of fight. She swallowed. “You can clean me up if you want.”

He brightened. “Good.”

He finished feeding her the soup first.

He came back with scissors.

Her heart sank.

He also had a tub of soapy water. A sea sponge was floating in it. He set it down next to her as he began to cut up the arm of her shirt. “Do you still play?”

“What?” “The saxophone.” He snipped over her upper arm, her shoulder.

She hadn’t touched it since high school. “No.”

“That’s too bad.” When he cut her collar, he made sure to get her bra strap as well. One side of her shirt fell open.

She looked over at her bare shoulder and arm. She could see puncture wounds from his claws. Her skin was covered in brownish dried blood. She tried to stifle a whimper, but it escaped from her lips.

He began to work on cutting the other side of her shirt. “I still mess around with my bass occasionally. I’ve moved on from punk rock, though. I like to think I’ve improved.” He finished the other sleeve and pulled the remnants of her shirt away with one swift motion. The straps of her bra dangled, but the cups stayed in place.

The bra was ruined, soaked with blood. Her upper torso was a mass of deep claw wounds. She looked mangled.

Cole knelt down and began cutting the legs of her pants.

She started shaking. Maybe she should tell him to stop. She was exposed now, not only her nakedness, but the way he’d hurt her. Maybe it had been better covered up.

Cole continued to cut the fabric. He slid the scissors underneath her underwear, and in three strokes, he’d cut one side of her pants all the way up to the top. The ribbons that had been a pant leg hung around her skin—which looked so pale and vulnerable. She started to shake.

“We never got a chance to play together, you know,” he was saying. “We always talked about it, but we never did.”

He had started on the other leg of her pants. At least the bottom half of her body was more or less intact. All of the damage seemed to be above her waist.

So why was he cutting off her pants?

But then they were gone too, and Cole straightened, making a perfunctory snip at the tiny bit of fabric holding the cups of her bra together. He tugged that away too.

And she wasn’t wearing any clothes.

The shaking got worse.

Cole was deliberately not looking at her now. He was bending over the tub of water, and he seemed quite interested in the sponge.

She watched him straighten and turn to her, sponge in hand. Water dripped onto the concrete floor.

“Cole?”

His voice was soft. “It’s okay, Dana. I’m just going to get the blood off.”

The water was warm. She had to admit it felt good, even though her cuts and scratches stung. Cole was gentle as he scrubbed the sticky blood from her skin. He didn’t talk. His face was composed, not a shred of emotion crossed his features.

He washed her arms first, and then her neck. Then he knelt down and washed her legs, even though there wasn’t much blood there.

There was blood all over her chest. It had seeped under her bra, settled in the crevice of her cleavage.

Cole looked at it, and his jaw twitched. He swallowed.

He put the sponge against her skin, just under her clavicle. Soapy water ran down over her, making rivulets in the blood on her chest.

She wanted to say not to do it. She didn’t want his hands on her.

No. That wasn’t true. She didn’t want to think about the idea that maybe she
did
want his hands on her.

Because that was disgusting. And horrible. And he had kidnapped her. He had hurt her. This was her blood that he was washing off, and he’d spilled it. And to want the man who was terrorizing her to—

The rough surface of the sponge brushed one of her nipples. She felt it tighten instantly, and a traitorous warmth was growing between her legs.

“Why’d you stop playing your sax?” Cole’s voice was strained.

“I...” She was having trouble catching her breath. “It reminded me too much of things I don’t like to think about.”

He was moving the sponge over her other breast now, working around the swell of it in rhythmic circles. The sensation was disturbingly erotic, and she fought her arousal as best she could.

“What things?”

“High school,” she gasped. Why did that feel good? Why could she register that? Shouldn’t all sexual stimulation be turned off when you were being chained up in a madman’s basement?

“High school.”

“What Adam and Chase did,” she said. “The massacre.”

“Becoming a wolf?”

“Yes.”

“But you’d be completely different if that hadn’t happened.” He might have been lingering, washing her breasts for longer than was necessary. She couldn’t be sure. If he was, she didn’t know if she minded or not. “You wouldn’t be you.”

She didn’t answer.

Cole stepped back, removing the sponge. She was both relieved and disappointed at the same time.

His gaze swept over her, taking her body in. “You’re very beautiful, Dana,” he whispered.

She shut her eyes, feeling revolted. But also a tiny bit pleased at the compliment.

“I need to wash your back.”

And then he was behind her, the sponge working its way over her spine and the sensitive curve of her waist. His voice at her ear. “This is probably very confusing for you. For both of us. I’m sorry.”

* * *

“So you spoke to him?” Chantal Hernandez, werewolf psychiatrist, crossed her legs. She was settled in a chair in her office. She always looked impeccably professional, and today was no exception. She tucked a strand of long, black hair behind her ear and looked at Dana expectantly.

Dana sat opposite Chantal. The office had a couch, but Dana had never laid down on it. She was comfortable enough sitting up. “I did.”

“And the world didn’t explode,” Chantal said, smiling. As always, there was a hint of a Latin accent when she spoke. “You didn’t lose your mind or throw yourself at him.”

“No,” said Dana. “But it was... upsetting. He said things to me that were... suggestive.”

“Of course it was upsetting,” said Chantal. “How could it not have been?”

“I guess so,” said Dana.

“Did his comments frighten you or make you anxious?”

Dana twisted her hands in her lap. “I guess so. I mean, eventually, they did. I was frightened by my reaction to them.”

“What was your reaction?”

She shifted on the couch. “I felt... aroused.” She could feel heat coming to her face just from admitting this.