Sweetest Taboo (3 page)

He needed Jane.

And goddammit, he didn't know how to get her back.

“Dallas!” Strong hands grabbed his upper arms and ripped him backward, forcing his fingers off Colin's throat. “Rein it in, man. You can't kill him. We need him. We need him to find out who attacked Jane.”

“He did.” Dallas had to force the words out between gasps, he was breathing so hard. “Whether or not he was on the street, he's the one pulling the strings, just like always.”

“Maybe.” The rage was starting to fade from Dallas's ears. He recognized Liam's voice, and realized his friend used the override code to enter. “But do you think she'll forgive you if you kill him, especially if you kill him without letting her talk to him first?”

Liam's strong hands still held him firm, but Dallas whipped sideways, freeing himself, his fear that Jane was already dead driving him.

“The bastard deserves every ounce of pain I can give him. He deserves to starve. To rot. For what he did? He deserves to endure the worst we can give him.” He met Liam's eyes. “How can you not understand that?”

He saw the pain and regret flash across his friend's face before he steeled himself again, then slowly shook his head. “I do,” he said flatly. “Dammit, Dallas, you know what I lost. But you haven't lost Jane—not yet. She's alive,” he continued, before Dallas could interrupt. “Did you hear me? Jane's alive.”

The words sliced his legs out from under him, and Dallas crumpled, his knees no longer able to hold him up. “What?” he asked stupidly. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying we've found her. Dallas, we've found Jane.”

There is light, then pain. I'm confused—uncertain of where I am. Of
who
I am.

But then the world comes into focus, and I realize that this place feels safe. Good. I'd been fighting this awakening, this consciousness, because I feared what I would find when I opened my eyes. Dark, damp walls. A moldy mattress. A plastic bucket to use as a toilet. Stale crusts of bread to wash down with warm, brown water.

Instead, this room is welcoming. Simple, but filled with light. I am warm, not cold. And the woman beside me with tears in her eyes smiles at me with such love and tenderness that my fear and confusion fade; I have no room inside me for any emotion but joy.

This,
I think.
This
is what it feels like to be born.

Dread replaced by wonder. Darkness swept away by light. And someone who loves you waiting at the end.

“Mommy?” The word feels like heaven against my dry, cracked lips.

“Jane! Oh, my sweet baby girl!” She clasps my hand and holds it tight. “Thank goodness you're awake!”

“What happened?” Only now do I look around, searching the rest of the room, panic rising once again as I glance toward the windows to my left, then back to my mother who stands on the other side of my bed, the closed door behind her. “Where's Dallas?”

It's hard to speak past the hard knot of fear that clogs my throat, but I have to hear that he is safe. Intellectually, I know that it's been seventeen years since we were locked in that filthy room. Seventeen years since we were cold and hungry, our passion our only reprieve from the horror. I know that—and at the same time, our kidnapping still feels fresh. Hard and cold and terrifying.

“He's right outside with Daddy.” My mother's voice is calm. As soothing as her warm hands folded over mine. “They're talking to the doctors. They didn't expect you to wake up so soon. You have quite a few sedatives swimming in your blood.”

That explains the muddle in my head, and I smile wryly at my mother. “It's like iocane powder,” I say, referencing
The Princess Bride,
one of my favorite movies. “I've built up an immunity to every sedative imaginable.”

I'm being flip, but maybe it's true. Over the years, I've taken a rainbow of pills to help me deal with the aftermath of the kidnapping. I haven't relied on them lately, though. I have Dallas now, the man who fills my heart and makes me whole. Who is so vital it seems at times as if we are two halves of the same person.

I look at the door with longing; I want to see him so badly it's like a physical ache. And yet at the same time I feel tense. Uncertain. And I don't understand why.

Frowning, I adjust the bed so that I'm sitting upright, hoping that will clear my fuzzy head. I try to think back. I remember waiting for him in the apartment, feeling safe even though I knew that feeling wouldn't last. And I remember that we'd argued. But about what, I don't know.

I frown, looking up at my mother as I try to pull it all back.

“Jane? Sweetheart.”

“I can't remember. I know something happened—when? yesterday?—but I can't remember.”

“You were attacked. Oh, baby, you were left unconscious on the street.”

Her voice cracks, and her eyes leave my face, and I know my mother well enough to realize that if she continues to look at me, she's going to cry. I gently pull my hand free and hug myself. Because what she says feels true. I close my eyes, trying to remember.

I was outside, walking fast. I was upset, I'm sure of that, but I don't remember why.

I felt alone—so alone.

And then, suddenly, I wasn't alone anymore.

Someone was following me.

A shiver rips through me, and my eyes fly open. I stare up into my mother's concerned face. “There was a woman. Tall and thin and dressed all in red. And she had a mask.”

“A carnival mask, yes,” my mother says. “Like she was dressed for an old-fashioned masquerade.”

I nod and lick my lips. “It was like…before.” My mother must hear the shaking in my voice because she takes my hand and squeezes it tight as I look up at her. “It was her, wasn't it? The Woman? Was she the one who attacked me?”

Tears spill down my mother's cheeks, but she doesn't let go of my hand to wipe them away. “I don't know. Probably. Dallas thinks so. But there was a party that night. A masquerade at the natural history museum. It could have been a mugging. Or someone who doesn't like—”

“The fact that I'm sleeping with my brother?”

She winces. Just barely. And then she nods.

“Do you believe that?”

“I don't know, sweetie. I don't know what to think. Do you remember anything? Anything that might help us find whoever did this to you?”

I try to think, to pull some sort of key fact from my foggy memory, but there's nothing much there. “I know she had a Taser. I was walking, and I heard footsteps. Then when I turned around, it got me. Knocked me to the ground.”

“Anything else?”

I nod, the movement making my head throb. “She had a stick—a club, I guess. The kind that extends. And she…she…”

I can't say it, but my hand goes to my face, and my mother gasps a little bit.

“Baby, oh, sweetheart.”

My cheeks are wet, and I realize that I'm crying. “That's it,” I say. “That's all I remember. The next thing I know, I was here.” I swallow. “Do you know what happened to me?”

“Some. Dallas called us, of course. It's—it's horrible.” She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head, as if whatever she is thinking is just too much.

“Mom?”

“They sent a picture of you to Dallas. On the sidewalk, I mean, and—oh, oh god.”

“A picture?” I hear myself say the word, but I can't wrap my mind around what she means.

“A text message. From your phone. And he tracked your phone and went to you, but you weren't there.” She sniffles and reaches for a tissue. “I just—if something worse had happened to you…”

I reach out my hand for her. “I'm okay, Mom. I'm going to be fine.”

She squeezes my fingers and nods, visibly gathering herself. “Somehow you ended up here and they admitted you as a Jane Doe. Dallas had Liam and Quince helping from the moment he knew you'd been attacked, and when they found you'd been admitted, he rushed here and called me and Daddy on the way.”

I nod. I know that Dallas would have told our parents I'd been attacked, but he wouldn't have told them about Deliverance. But they know that Liam is in security and Dallas's old boarding school roommate Quince is part of MI6, so my mom wouldn't find their help odd.

“Dallas.” His name is soft on my lips, full of longing. I know he is just beyond those doors, so close I could walk to him, and yet at the same time he seems farther from me than he has ever been.

I still don't understand why I'm feeling that distance. I only know that it's there, hidden in my still-shadowed memory.

And then the door opens, and I watch as he enters, his long, purposeful strides underscoring the urgency of his movements. He is as tall and gorgeous as always, but today his caramel colored hair is wild and unkempt, as if he's spent hours unconsciously worrying it with his fingers. The angles of his sculpted face are more pronounced, the lines drawn from exhaustion, and it's clear he hasn't slept.

Remnants of fear cling to him like palpable things, but there is joy, too. And when he whispers my name, it's like a lifeline pulling us back together, making me whole. Making
us
whole.

I watch as a tentative smile touches his lips, as relief fills those vibrant green eyes. I could drown in the depths of emotion I see there, and I hold out a hand, needing to touch him. Needing to know that he's real.

He hurries to me, his throat moving as he swallows, and a tear snakes its way down his cheek as he clasps my hand in his.

It is as if his touch is an elixir, a magic potion that opens the doors of my memory, and I flinch. My heart pounds painfully in my chest, and I yank my hand free as memory floods through me, overwhelming me.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it.
“Colin.”

It's the only word I speak, but as I do, memories rush back, hard and horrible.
Oh, god. Oh, god.
I remember now—I remember it all—and I look at Dallas, sure my eyes are full of harsh accusations.

He shakes his head, his face turning gray. “Jane—”

“He's trying, baby,” my mother says, and we both turn to stare at her. “Your brother's been trying to get in touch with Colin to let him know what happened and that you're here. That you're okay.”

“Has he?” I ask, shifting to look at Dallas again. I hear the edge in my voice. The bitter sarcasm. “I wonder why you haven't been able to find him.”

I want to scream and rage and rant, and I know that Dallas can see that on my face.

“He must be traveling,” my mother says, unaware of the silent recriminations passing from me to Dallas. “Jane, sweetie, lie back. I don't like your color. We need to get the nurse in to—”

“No.” I force myself back against the pillow as my father steps into the room. “No, I'm feeling better. I'm just—I'm just so tired.” I don't look at Dallas, but I know he understands me. I'm physically exhausted, yes. But that's not what I mean. I'm tired of the lies. Of the secrets.

I remember all the times I'd justified his secrets to myself because I knew he had stuff to deal with. All the times I'd asked him if he'd learned anything about our kidnapping. But never once had I suspected that he was keeping such a massive secret from me. That he would withhold his suspicion that Colin had been the Jailer. That Dallas would have the sheer audacity to suspect, capture, and incarcerate the man who started out as my birth father but became my friend.

I don't want to even think about the possibility that such a horrible thing is true, but Dallas should have told me. After all his promises, all his assurances that there would be no more secrets between us, he held back the one secret that ripped me to shreds and sent me running blindly from him, unable to process the depth of his deception. Unable to bear the weight of his lies.

And though I'd wanted him beside me just moments ago, now I want him to leave. Except I don't, because I want him to hold me. I want to go back in time. I want him to have never lied to me.

I want him.

I want us.

And I'm terrified that we've lost everything that we've built. That we've lost each other.

I draw a breath, then meet his eyes. “Go,” I say. “Just, please, go.”

Shadows haunt his eyes as he shakes his head. “Jane, no.”

I turn to my mother, as if this is a simple argument between siblings and she needs to step in and play arbiter the way she did when we were kids.

But it's not my mother who answers, it's my dad, and I realize that I'd been so lost in the sight of Dallas that I hadn't noticed my dad's entrance. “She wants you to go,” he says to Dallas. “Do your
sister
the courtesy of listening to her.” The extra emphasis on the word “sister” makes us both cringe.

“Dad—” Dallas begins.

“This is your fault,” my father snaps, his gravelly accusation directed solely at Dallas. “I hope you realize this is all on you. If you hadn't—back then, if you two hadn't—” He broke off, his voice raw, uneven. “If you'd only—”

“
Eli
.” My mother's voice is unusually harsh, and I watch as my father gathers himself, then looks at Dallas again, his expression blank.

“As I said, boy. She wants you to go.”

“You, too, Daddy.” My words are soft, but firm, because it is not only Dallas who has hurt and disappointed me, who has left the fabric of my world in tatters. “I need you to go, too.”

For a moment, my father looks taken aback. Then he stands straighter. “Don't be ridiculous. You're upset and scared. But we need to know what you remember. Whoever did this to you—we have to find them.”