Page 14 of Striker
Emotion rushed over her. Fear. Panic. The need to run. “A couple of weeks, I think.”
He exhaled heavily through his nose and braced his hands on the tub. “Did he say why he took you?”
A chill shook her shoulders. She didn’t want to think about that. About the implication of what he’d do if she didn’t supply him with information she didn’t have.
She tucked her chin and stared down at the water. “I need to get out. I feel dizzy.” It wasn’t a lie. She was ready to collapse.
His knuckle cradled her chin, turning her to look at him. His sea-glass eyes held space for her to unravel.
Only she wouldn’t.
“I’m going to help you out, but there’s something I need to know.”
She froze. He was so close. His warm, musky scent invaded her. He smelled of earth and lemon—effortlessly manly. He’d taken off his tactical vest but still held an air of authority. A scar on his neck disappeared beneath the neckline of his shirt, and his arm held evidence of old wounds. Tattoos scattered his forearms, and more ink peeked out from beneath the pushed-up sleeves at his elbows.
Pressure expanded in her throat. She could study him for hours. “What?” Fear of what he wanted to know rocked the syllable.
“Did they—” He huffed, looked at the wall, then back at her. “Did they touch you? Do you need some kind of support or— Fuck, I don’t know.”
His eyebrows were drawn together, and his mouth was fastened in a hard line. He looked so uncertain and worried.
She wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “No.” Her belly twisted. “I mean, I don’t think so. To be honest, there were periods I was unconscious, but I don’t suspect that . . . happened.” She hung her head.
She couldn’t be one-hundred-percent certain, and that fear clung to every corner of her mind. Tears misted her eyes. She hated this. Hated being so vulnerable. Hated what they’d wanted to do to her. What could have happened had Atlas not freed her.
He placed his hand on her neck. His strong fingers were warm and comforting. “You don’t need to think about it, okay? I just want to make sure I get you whatever help is necessary.” His careful words made emotion build in her chest.
He caught her chin again. “What’s going on?”
Tears fell to her cheeks. “I just can’t believe it’s over. I thought I’d never escape. Rex, he . . .”
“He what?”
She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip. “He made threats.”
“Like?”
God, she should’ve kept her mouth shut. Although part of her didn’t want to stop talking. Needed to get every sordid, smothering detail off her chest. “He was going to sell me.”
Dark mist frayed the edges of Atlas’s vision. Hot, boiling rage bunched his muscles.
Sell.
Motherfucker. His hands burned to wrap around Rex’s neck. To squeeze the life from his useless body. Molly’s doe-like eyes reflected uncertainty and, goddammit, shame.
He tried to force his face to relax. The muscles resisted. “None of that’s going to happen. It’s over. You’ll never see him alive.”
Standing, he removed a clean, rolled-up towel from the rack, shook it, and held it out for her. He turned his face away. “Eyes are closed,” he assured her, hoping that if she fell he’d move fast enough to catch her.
Water splashed. He wrapped the towel around her body, then opened his eyes. She adjusted the white material beneath her arms and then he gripped her waist, lifting her from the tub.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
Pink stained her cheekbones, but he suspected that was due to shyness rather than health returning because the rest of her skin was still chalky. Holding her elbow, he guided her away from the tub.
“Do you need help dressing?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn’t want to leave and have her get hurt, but he didn’t want to push her outside her comfort zone.
“I’ve got it.” She gave him a tentative smile and shuffled closer to the counter.
