Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (41 page)

The old man gripped his shoulder and tipped his head toward Aiden. "Right now he's got the fight, but if things don't go our way... He can't afford to lose his mother."

"I can't afford to lose either one of them." He meant it. He loved Bren with an ache. But her boys had carved out a place in his heart, too. "Let's hope it's the fort. Once we find them, call Bendix. Then take Aiden and the dog and find cover." He handed him the radio but hesitated. He wanted to say, "I'll work on this thing"—forgiveness. Instead, he let go of the radio and shrugged. "Your son raised a great kid. Keep him safe."

Family's not something I'm looking for.
What a total ass he'd been.

Now he wanted it all, and he meant to protect all of them, including the old man, until he could make that happen.

R
obert stood behind Bren, his arm around her waist, holding her against him. He caressed her neck, the touch of his fingertips like nails to a chalkboard. She wanted to cringe. But she endured because if he believed she belonged to him, had belonged to him since they were kids, then perhaps he'd be blinded to what she was really up to.

"The lens loves you, sweetheart." His mouth and hot breath, unbearably close to her ear, made her lips tremble.

She'd maneuvered him to the table. Pretending to be attracted to him had made her nauseous—touching him, equivalent to charming a snake. But the result put her within an arm's reach of the scissors. The sharp point with its nearness taunted her. No way could she grab it in front of him. Robert wasn't ripped with muscles, but he was tall, agile, and a man—three strikes.

She needed to turn him around. Put his back to the table. In order to do that, Bren needed to block out her derision for him and focus on the result—escape.

Bren closed her eyes tight.
Turn around and touch him.

"Robert." She ran her hand along his forearm that held her to him. "Loosen up. I want to see you." His hold gave slightly, and Bren turned in his arm.

"Better?" The tenor of his voice, edged with his usual concern for her, took on a frightening parallel. This Robert lived within the same body as the other one. She couldn't tell them apart at the moment. His easy smile brightened the strong lines of his fine-boned face. Blue, peaceful eyes watched her with interest.

She wouldn't be lulled into thinking she could reason with him. This Robert would surely disappear, and she'd be left to deal with the bastard that lurked below the surface.

"The table's poking my back. How about we switch." She cupped his cheek. Unlike Rafe's, it was too smooth. He was smooth, too put-together. How could he have ever believed she would want him with his perfectly pressed pants, starched shirt, and glaringly polished shoes?

We're complete opposites.

"The bed's more comfortable, Bren. I can lie next to you." He said it with such seriousness that every nerve ending she possessed went on alert, and the bed loomed with what he had in mind.

"We'll get to the bed, baby." Her hand slid down his shirt and rested on his tie. She tugged it. "I thought I'd undress you first."

He smiled wickedly, hopped up on the table, and pulled her to him, placing her between his thighs. "I'm all yours."

Oh, yes. He was definitely hers. Only with the height of the table, he'd grown by several inches, and his body blocked the scissors. She could reach them. But she still needed to do it without calling attention.

Touch him.

Bren took a breath and continued to work on his tie until she pulled it free. The buttons came next, and she pulled his shirttails from his trousers.

He unbuttoned his cuffs and pulled off his linen shirt, leaving him bare chested.

Okay, more skin in which to plunge the scissors. This was a good thing. Except the thought of how she would accomplish it made her queasy. But as accommodating as he was at that moment, seeing he was going to rape her with her consent, the queasiness settled into hardcore survival mode, and she moved to his belt.

He grabbed her hand. "My turn."

Shit!

"No fair," she teased. "You've got far more clothes on than I do."

He'd put her at a disadvantage when he'd stolen her from her home in the middle of the night. Bren aimed to equalize the situation.

"How about you give up your shoes and socks?" She touched his arm lightly. "You don't make love with your shoes on, do you?"

He laughed and kissed her forehead. "Then we move to the bed."

She smiled back, tried like hell to ignore the wet outline of his lips on her skin, said nothing, and bent down to untie his shoes to remove them. When she'd gone to bed last night, she hadn't dressed for the fight of her life. But she could outrun him if they were evenly matched, and something told her Mr. Perfect had tender feet. She did not. If her aim missed a vital organ or only grazed him, he would come after her. With that in mind, she removed his socks.

Crap
—except for the damn key. She'd work on that. It was in his back pocket.

He slid off the table and pulled her to him. His head bent slightly; he had every intention of kissing her. It was the only chance she had at retrieving the key.

His lips came down tentatively. Bren held still. He could search for her tonsils before she'd respond. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore his soft lips, wide and clumsy, tasting her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his waist and touched his butt cheeks, rubbing for the key. The hard shape of it rested in the right rear pocket of his pants, and she began to work it out under the pretense of groping his ass.

He moaned into her mouth, his tongue pushing its way inside. It took every ounce of resolve not to bite him. She continued her manipulation of the key until she pushed it out and into her hand.

Bren pulled away. "You kiss like you mean it." She rolled her lips in. They were swollen and wet.

"I want you. Enough petting, Bren." He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the bed.

She ran her hand along the table and snagged the scissors. Raising it, she jabbed it hard into him aiming for his heart, but he dodged to the right.

It was like cutting into a tender chicken breast, the give of flesh, and Bren let go, the scissors falling. It hit the table with a resounding clatter, then a light thud onto the floor.

Robert groaned in pain, his grip falling away. "What the hell?" He gave her a confused look and grabbed his arm. "Bren?"

Not good. He shouldn't still be standing... or talking. She glanced up. His eyes were wide with shock, and then they pierced her with understanding. "You bitch."

Shit.
No one died from an injury to the shoulder unless a major artery was hit. There was blood, but not enough to suggest he was going to bleed out. God, she sucked with her aim, but he was off balance and she had the key. She ran to the door. He stumbled behind her. Things fell to the floor, and she didn't look back. She concentrated on the lock and the key. Her fingers shook with fear, and she cursed.

Dear God, help me find the hole, or he's going to kill me.

As though God had heard her prayer, the key slipped in the lock and clicked. She yanked opened the door. The scent of pine greeted her, a chorus of spring peepers beckoned, and she took her first step toward freedom—when an arm reached out and hauled her back. She screamed. The sharp point of the scissors, coated in Robert's blood, pressed into her stomach, and she clamped her lips shut and swallowed a whimper.

He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her face against his smooth cheek. "I'm going to take you now as your punishment." The engaging voice of a new lover disappeared, replaced with the edge of reprisal. He yanked her off her feet and dragged her to the bed and pushed her down.

Sitting on top of her, pinning her arms under his thighs, he pressed the scissors to her throat with one hand and with the other unbuckled his belt and worked the button and zipper of his pants.

Bren squirmed beneath him, screaming her head off. If someone was out there, she prayed they'd hear her.

"Don't fight me." He pressed the scissors into the soft hollow of her throat. "It can go the hard way or the easy way."

Oh God, he was going to rape her! He was going to keep her captive. And he was going to punish her again and again for deceiving him.

He moved down to her thighs, and grabbed for her hands at the same time, still keeping her pinned beneath him. His lips came down hard, his tongue relentless. He tore at her mouth until she unclenched her teeth. Bren choked out a cry when his tongue darted into her mouth. Tears, hot and wet, ran down her cheeks. Consumed with taking what was not his, he had left the scissors on her chest, leaving its sharp point between their bodies to graze her neck and throat repeatedly with their movements.

Bren moaned into his mouth to stop. The point pierced her skin, and she gulped down a cry. Her eyes flew open and locked into his. They were wild and intent on conquering.

"Please, Robert, stop!"

He pulled away suddenly, the scissors falling into the crack between the wall and the mattress. Robert studied her intently. His brows furrowed, and he touched the hollow of her neck. "Sweetheart, you're bleeding."

No shit.

He brought his finger up. Bren's dark, red blood covered his fingertip, and he tasted it, smiling pleasantly like a vampire after a meal.

Bren wanted to gag. All that she knew of Robert Connelly became distorted. His attractive patrician features twisted with anger, and she didn't recognize the childhood friend or the man who had been so compassionate toward her.

His hand came down on her breast. Roughly, he pinched her nipple through her shirt.

Bren gasped in pain. "Don't, Robert. You're hurting me."

"Like you hurt me." He glanced at his shoulder. His pale skin oozed with blood. Robert's lips thinned. "Our first time could have been sweet... sensual." His eyes hardened, and he reached under her shirt and tugged on her panties.

"God no. Please don't." She'd die before she'd let him invade her. She reared up and screamed.

"You son of a bitch." The deep drawl filled the room accompanied by the racking of a shotgun.

Robert's eyes grew large and his hand stilled, clenched around the satin of her panties.

Bren couldn't see him, but she recognized the slow, pissed-off tone of Rafe's voice with utter relief.

His powerful hand gripped Robert's arm—the difference in strength between the two men evident when Rafe's fingers wrapped around Robert's bicep and plucked him off her. He flew back into the metal table and fell to the ground.

Tall and angry, Rafe loomed over him, a shotgun shoved against Robert's skull. "I should kill your miserable ass."

Robert remained still, his eyes closed.

The tightness in Bren's chest eased.

Rafe glanced at Bren. "He hurt you?"

She shook her head, her hand instinctively going up to her throat.

"Jesus. You're bleeding!" He lowered the shotgun to his side and moved toward her.

Bren scrambled to the far corner of the bed and tucked herself into a small ball.

Rafe's face tensed. "What'd he do to you?"

Bren's heart sped up. She couldn't speak. She felt dirty. She wanted to go home. Bren shook her head. "Not now," she whispered and bit down on her lip, helpless to stop the tears welling in her eyes.

A hand grabbed for the table, and Bren gasped. Robert hoisted himself up.

"Rafe!"

Rafe flinched and raised the shotgun.

Robert grabbed for the barrel. "I'm going to fuck you up, Langston." His language, sharp and vulgar, made Bren recoil deeper into the corner. Sweat beaded Robert's forehead, his usual pale complexion now a flush of repressed rage as he wrestled Rafe for the shotgun.

Rafe's dark brows knit, and he beaded in on Robert. "It's over, Connelly. Sheriff's right outside the door."

"You're lying."

Rafe forced Robert back against the table. He motioned with his head to Bren. "Get out of here."

She wanted to. But she wouldn't leave him. If Kevin were right outside, why wasn't he drawing down on Robert? No. She wasn't leaving Rafe.

"Move it, Red," Rafe growled, the gun slipping from his hands.

"Rafe!" Bren screamed.

"Connelly." The gruff voice seemed to stop time—and Robert.

Paddy stood in the small doorway, hunched over, holding a pistol at the ready.

Cursing, Rafe shot Paddy an irritated gaze. "Old man, I got this."

Bren moved to the bed and struggled to get to her feet. Rafe glanced over his shoulder. "God, Bren. Stay—" Rafe swung his head back toward Robert.
"Shit."

Robert twisted the gun away from Rafe and pointed it at him. "Rafe!" Bren held her breath.

Paddy's heavy boots clomped down the wooden steps. "God damn it!" He kept his gun trained on Robert. "I'm not losing another son."

Robert sneered and took aim at Rafe's chest. Rafe backed up and struggled for balance when his leg hit the end of the bed. A single gunshot exploded, echoing inside the stone walls of the cellar.

Bren glanced at Robert still holding the shotgun now aimed at her. Glued to Robert's menacing eyes, she prepared to die. But his look changed slowly to one of terror, and the shotgun slipped from his hand and hit the floor as he clutched the grisly hole in his chest.

Blood trickled through his fingers, and he collapsed.

Bren's body trembled, and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God."

Rafe grabbed the shotgun from the floor and knelt down to check Robert's pulse. "He's dead." He stood and came to her, pulling her quivering body to him.

"He killed Tom," she managed to whisper.

"I know, honey." He held her at arm's length, doing an inventory of her when his eyes landed on her throat. "He cut you."

She didn't miss the edge to his words. "It doesn't hurt."

He probed her throat gingerly with his finger. "It's a flesh wound," he said, relief in his voice. Their gazes met. His eyes swept her as though he was unsure she was real. "You're wearing my shirt."